


Under the Quicksilver Star

by spudqueen



Category: BBC Sherlock, Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: AU: Wild West America 1800's, Anal Fingering, Anal Sex, Anglo-Irish Relations, Angst, Blow Jobs, F/F, Falling In Love, First Kiss, First Time, Frottage, Heavy Drinking, Hurt/Comfort, Implied Heterosexual Relationships, Internalized Homophobia, Johnlock - Freeform, Lesbian Sex, M/M, Native American Character(s), Past Incest, Period Typical Attitudes, Pinkertons, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Prostitutes, Road Agents, Shootouts, Slash, Terrorism, Undercover Agent, Violence, Virginity, gold mining, mystrade
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-10-20
Updated: 2015-09-05
Packaged: 2018-02-21 22:40:12
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 13
Words: 31,748
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2484857
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/spudqueen/pseuds/spudqueen
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Mycroft Holmes leaves behind the stifling social expectations of Victorian London under a cloud of scandal. He strikes out for the western frontier of America and establishes his own wealthy gold mining empire.  Despite the arrival of Sherlock, and the chaos he creates, Mycroft's life is ordered and his reputation unquestioned....but can this fragile peace survive when his empire falls under attack from an unknown gang.  Will the arrival of undercover Pinkerton Detective Gregory Lestrade save Mycroft or tear his fragile heart apart?</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Mycroft

**Author's Note:**

> Quick note for PTSD triggers.
> 
> Photo Edit of Mycroft at end of Chapter by Spudqueen.

 

The biting chill of winter, eager to take an early hold in this northern edge of the frontier, was gripping the rocky edge of Alder Gulch. The wind whipped up the dirt roadbed in swirls of stinging dust. The smell of snow, never quite forgotten during the short summers of Montana, hung heavy in the air. It was both a promise and a warning.

Despite the exhaustion of a long day Mycroft Holmes felt a certain serenity as he stepped away from the noise and light of the gentlemen’s club and was enveloped by the frigid darkness of the late October evening. Turning up the collar of his wool frock coat against the cold he drew his long, white deerskin gloves carefully over each finger, slipping the pearl buttons into their eyelets with satisfaction. Delicately he squared his soft felted top hat and pocketed his watch inside his waistcoat.

This was, he reflected, his favorite part of the day. The creak of the boardwalk, the tranquil fading of all the voices and needs left behind, the swing of his umbrella and the tap tap as he strode forth soothed his frazzled nerves. In this weather it was possible he would have occasion to use it tonight. No matter. Time for home and hearth. And perhaps a whiskey.

Virginia City had grown in the two years since Mycroft arrived, seeking his own fortune, having severed ties with his father’s house and titles in England. Wallace Street, once a muddy bog lined with tents and stalls, now boasted hotels and commissaries of timber and stone, a blacksmith’s shop and gambling houses at it’s rougher edges.

Crossing the street, ignoring the luridly painted prostitutes leaning over the balcony at the Brass Rail Saloon, Mycroft strode purposefully past the Wells Fargo Express office, tipping his hat brim to Mr. Fortson, the proprietor. Tap, tap, tap...his umbrella announced his approach.

From his right Mycroft saw his assistant, Quentin, dodging across the rutted road to intersect his path. The flow of wagons and people appeared to eddy around him. He did not seem to be hurrying yet his rigid posture belied a certain agitation that caused Mycroft to slow to a stop.

“Mr. Holmes, I think you’d best come quickly,” Quentin hissed,” It’s your brother again, I’m afraid.”

Mycroft sighed. He felt any hope of a relaxing evening die. “Where?”

“The Brass Rail....he.....well, it seems he may have raised the ire of a certain well known citizen whose temper....” Quentin faltered.

Pinching his nose between his fingers to forestall the beginnings of another headache, Mycroft gestured for him to lead the way. They crossed the street, stepped through the swinging doors and were immersed in a sea of drunken miners, raucous ranch hands and women of flexible morals plying their trade with admirable industry. Quentin picked his way through the crowd with an urgency that bordered on reckless, and men stepped aside as they saw who he led, whispering to each other.

They reached a separate room, reserved for private poker games which, despite the higher stakes involved, often attracted a more unsavory element. Sweeping aside the heavy, red velvet curtains used to conceal the back bar Quentin stepped to the left in time for Mycroft to witness his wayward brother, Sherlock, being dragged from his chair and slammed against the wall. The large, filthy fists clutching Sherlock's fashionable jacquard silk waistcoat were attached to one of the largest men Mycroft had ever seen. The man's face trembled with rage and was turning a shade of red that only the truly intoxicated could hope to achieve.

Despite his tenuous position Sherlock seemed unimpressed.

“Your inability to understand the basic rules of draw poker does not suggest any dishonesty on my part.” Sherlock drawled, his expression bordering on a smirk. “ Perhaps you should drink less whiskey to save what intelligence remains to you...”

With a roar the large man cocked a meaty fist back to...

“Stop!” Mycroft intoned.

Every face in the room, excepting Sherlock, swiveled in shock toward the entrance and the voice that brooked no disagreement. A stocky man dressed in black from head to foot rose slowly from behind the table with a crafty expression, tipping his bowler to Mycroft.

“Bill!”, the man snapped in irritation, eyes like chips of coal locked with Mycroft,” let the little brat go!”

Sherlock was dumped on the dusty floorboards without further ceremony. He rose with an air of rumpled dignity. Collecting his frock coat, bowler and a large pile of coins from the table, he downed a shot of some clear liquor and swept past his older brother without a word.

“Our apologies, Mr. Holmes. No harm meant.” said the man in black, ”Just the boys working out a little spat.”

Despite his conciliatory tone Mycroft could feel the need for violence radiating from the man.

“I do not find your assurances comforting, Mr. Moran.”

“Your brother has the manners of...” Moran hesitated, sweat breaking out on his brow. His eyes narrowed.

“Yes? What comparison would you make?”

Moran’s glanced away. Looking at his fellow players he spat loudly in the direction of the spittoon and cursed under his breath. Feet shuffled. Someone coughed loudly.

“Perhaps you would refuse Sherlock a seat at the table on the next occasion to avoid further...unpleasantness.”

Mycroft turned to his assitant, “Quentin, please purchase a fresh round for the table. A good evening to you gentlemen.”

With one last look of distain he turned back into the chaos of the main bar, weaving deftly through the crowds, umbrella held before him to clear his path, and finally reached the relative oasis of the boardwalk which fronted the Brass Rail.

Laying his gloved hands on the railing with exaggerated care he took a deep gulp of the bracing night air. The calm, sure mantle he had worn in the saloon dissolved like tissue paper. Pulse racing from the press of bodies he dropped his umbrella with a clatter. _His mind flashed...hands were holding him down ruthlessly.  The pain flared along his side as he rolled to protect himself.  He heard their rough voices..._  

The edge of panic approached and Mycroft pushed it back ruthlessly, squeezing his eyes shut.  It was not a weakness he could afford in public.

“ You do realize that mounting a rescue expedition through that mob was not necessary? Indeed I think it the cause of more problems than the cure.”

Only the slight stiffening of Mycroft’s shoulders indicated his surprise. He did not turn toward the man lounging against the wall behind him. The deep resonance of Sherlock’s voice was ruined by the petulant tone he adopted.

Sherlock moved closer and peered at his brother’s expression in the glow of the gas lamps. Eyes the color of pale blue ice flickered rapidly over Mycroft, cataloging symptoms and drawing familiar conclusions. “Are you truly still suffering from the nervous attacks?”

A sleek black coupe-style carriage rounded the corner, the breath of the horse rising in great foggy plumes, and pulled to a smooth halt. The driver hopped down smartly and held open the door expectantly.

Quentin had anticipated his need once again. Mycroft found he was incredibly grateful.

He turned to meet his brother's stare. Swallowing carefully Mycroft found his voice. “We should go home, brother.”

"I suppose that is all the response I should expect?" Sherlock's exasperation spilled over.

Mycroft was unwilling to have this row here in the streets.  Even in the relative privacy of the boardwalk there was an audience. Now was certainly not the time.

He gestured at the carriage "Get inside!"

Sherlock sighed dramatically, running his long fingers through his black curls for emphasis, and stepped into the carriage.  Mycroft slid across the deep red satin seats and settled into the other side, carefully avoiding any contact.

Staring out the leaded glass windows he saw the first fat snowflakes of the season drift lazily into the wake of the carriage as it lurched into motion, heading toward the outskirts of town and his home on the hill.

  
                                                                                                                          


	2. Lestrade

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> 'We never sleep' was the Pinkerton's motto.  
> But by the time Greg Lestrade rode into town sleep is exactly what  
> he was hoping for.
> 
>  
> 
> Cowboy Lestrade edit by Spudqueen.
> 
> Kudos and Comments are what I live for!

 

 

The sun was long down by the time Gregory Lestrade rode over the final, scrub covered hill, saddle leather cracking in the cold. Flickering lights lined the bowl-shaped valley. Civilization. At last. Slapping his frozen hands together, he rubbed the blood back into circulation. Those lights seemed to promise all the comforts left behind over a week ago. Just the thought of a hot bath....soaking off the layers of road dirt...sounded like bliss. _Christ, he had almost forgotten what a real feather bed felt like._

Greg gently spurred his horse, “There it is girl, let’s go.”

 

                                                                                               ------------------------

 

By the time he had ridden a short way down the main street Greg was reassessing the civilization label. Sure the city had all the trappings of a prosperous western town, a tangled web of telegraph lines even ran down one side of the main street, but he had already dodged one runaway horse, and a group of careening drunks singing off key.

One of the revelers broke off, grabbing for his reins. “Hey...hey mister!”

Greg swung his quarter horse wide, around the side of a passing cart, avoiding the confrontation.

A two story saloon, festooned with faded red bunting from some long ago celebration, seemed to swallow the first intersection he came upon. Piano music and laughter billowed out and over the wooden boardwalk. A well proportioned redhead leaned over the upper balcony....smiling invitingly as he passed. She waved, swaying precariously.

“Evenin’ M’am.” Greg tipped his hat but rode on.

Times not long past he would have climbed eagerly up to that balcony just to see what she hid under that smile. Plenty had happened since those days though, he mused. Maybe he was showing his age. Truth be told he wanted the feather bed to himself. At least tonight.

 

                                                                                               ------------------------

 

 

A smaller, clapboard stable clung to the shadowed side of the saloon monstrosity. Securing his horse to the hitching rail, set under the twisted black branches of a cottonwood tree, Greg slid out of the saddle, groaning at his the stiffness in his legs. Twisting and stretching his aching lower back he searched the shadowy yard for the stable boy. As if in deliberate contrast to the wild scene next door not a soul was in sight.

A low, wooden bench beckoned along the side of the wall and he sank down gratefully, digging out his tobacco pouch to fill his pipe and wait. Blowing thin drifts of fragrant smoke he watched the traffic roll past. He was damn near played out, almost sleeping on the hard bench.

 

                                                                                               ------------------------

 

 

Suddenly Greg noticed two men weaving their way through the busy roadway, tension and purpose evident in their stride. The round faced youngster leading the way was dressed in a tan tweed suit and bowler sort of style but it was the second man....

Greg lurched to his feet, moving toward the light of the gas lamps at the saloon entrance...there was something extraordinary about this man.

Long, lithe legs carried him forward, cool and aloof as you please, striding confidently through the crowds. Neatly turned out in a dark frock coat he was swinging an umbrella of all things. A gold pocket watch chain peeked out from his silky vest. Greg was reminded of a boxer he had seen fighting along the New York waterfront one night: calm acceptance as he had stepped back into the ring, kinetic power held tightly but tempered by a fluid grace. It was almost erotic.

The men mounted the saloon steps. Greg began to follow them, almost unaware that he was doing it until a voice called from behind. “Did you require a stall, sir?”

 

                                                                                              ------------------------

 

Minutes later, having given strict instructions to the stablehand on the care and feeding of his horse, Greg had just about justified heading into that saloon after all. A shot of whiskey would be just the thing. The road had been dusty and he was parched. Maybe he could catch another glimpse...

Rounding the corner Greg came to a dead stop, shrinking back into the shade of the stable yard.

The man, his Boxer, who had captured his imagination not five minutes past was gripping the railing of the saloon’s porch, white knuckled, and breathing shallow. Shaking and alone.

Greg could see his face now. Auburn hair receded from a rather long, angular face. His eyes were squeezed shut, as if opening them might admit a terrifying truth. He wasn’t classically handsome but yet...even in this moment of weakness he had a certain nobility to him. It was almost as if a mask slipped showing the fragile boy hidden inside.

 _What the hell could have happened in that short a time_?

A man like him didn’t need some stranger coming up on him at a time like this but Greg felt almost compelled to speak...

Just then a deep, melodious baritone voice confronted the man from behind, just outside Greg’s line of sight. The owner of the voice sounded exasperated as if personally affronted by the Boxer’s frailty. However, when the other man stepped into view, studying the Boxer’s visage intently, the transformation was instant; concern, vivid and personal, painted his face.

Touching the Boxer’s arm lightly the younger man said, “Are you truly still suffering from the nervous attacks?” His British accent made it sound like he was pouting.

Ah...Greg stilled.

This he understood. It was a lesson the war had taught him well. He was conscious of an almost primal need to defend his Boxer...and yet that was ludicrous. They had never even spoken. He did not know his name.   _His Boxer?  What could he be thinking?_

A black coupe rolled into view, stopping with precision at the porch steps.

“We should go home, brother.” The Boxer spoke softly, slipping back in control. His accent had an upper crust tone.

The brother complained but dove into the carriage with only token resistance.

The long, elegant fingers of his hand closed on the glossy black door and yet the Boxer paused. His brow furrowed. Turning with deliberation, he peered into the shadows. At Greg.

Their eyes met...or at least it seemed they could see each other even in the low light.  A circuit, like the whining electric hum of the telegraph wires Greg remembered outside his tenement room in the Bowery, closed in his mind, connecting the two men. They stood, frozen in the moment. Excitement and fear warred in Greg’s mind. His palms began to sweat, despite the cold air, yet he didn’t dare look away.

And then the Boxer broke away, stepping cautiously through the door.

With the crack of the drivers whip the moment was over. Greg let out a breath he had not known he was holding.

Now he needed that drink.

Two hours, and several tumblers of whiskey, later Greg had secured a comfortable room at a local boarding house nearby and was sleeping the sleep of the dead. The strange night encounter melded into his dreams until he was unsure what he had seen when he awoke the next morning.

 

                                                                                                   --------------------------

 

Gruff voices and the rumbling of supply wagons woke Greg early. He lay in the soft, squeaky brass poster bed and enjoyed the luxury for a bit longer. He stretched, popping stiff joints. _Old timer._

Getting in so late, after whatever that was he had witnessed last night, meant a bath didn’t happen. The dirt from the ride still stubbornly covered every exposed part of his body. The water in his pitcher was ice cold, but did the job, and at least it shook out the cobwebs.

His morning ablutions complete Greg pulled out the case file from his satchel, rubbing his neck as he studied. It was a bit of a shock.

Most Pinkerton files were chock full of reports, descriptions and even the occasional blurry, daguerreotype likeness. None of that was here.

Just the scant record of a string of thefts, damaged property and one mysterious threat, ‘ **And They All Fall Down** ’, painted, so the account said, in blood red on an office window.

                                                                                               ---------------------------

 

_Two weeks ago he had been called in to speak to Allan Pinkerton himself. Everything he had heard didn’t prepare him for the force of the man’s personality. Larger than life, as they say._

_Pinkerton spoke with a Scottish grumble. “ This undertaking is of a personal nature, you might say. Travers tells me you’re the man for the job.”_

_Greg nodded. “It’s an honor to do what I can for you, sir.”_

_“Don’t know if it’s an honor but it will be dangerous, right enough.” Pinkerton spit in the general direction of a brass spittoon. “ I need a careful man. A smart man. A man who knows how to work undercover and keep himself to himself when needed.”_

_Silence seemed like the right response._

_Pinkerton stared, stoking his bushy beard in thought. He snorted. “Seems like that might be you then.”_

_A thin case file was placed in his hands. He glanced down at the cover with the all seeing eye of the Pinkerton Detective Agency and it’s motto ‘We never sleep’ embossed in red. Red meant this was top priority._

_“You can read the particulars for yourself,” Pinkerton said, “but keep this in mind...the man who paid our retaining fee is an Englishman...a member of their House of Lords. An’ it’s his eldest boy, and his troubles, we are talking about here. But our client doesn’t want the son to know. Taking care of his problem will be worth a lot to us.”_

_“I understand, sir.”_

_“Make sure you do. Follow his instructions to the letter and leave today.” he growled. “Dismissed.”_

 

                                                                                                  ------------------------

 

Breakfast was a delicious surprise. Fresh biscuits, eggs, ham and fresh churned butter. The dishes were chipped but the coffee was devil strong.

The landlady, Mrs. Hudson, made sure to tell him how things stood. “Don’t expect this every day, mind. I’m your landlady not your mother.”

“Yes, M’am. It was quite tasty.” Greg knew he was in good as she flashed him a smile.

“You told me you’re to work at the Holmes mines? What will you do there?”

“Uh, I am an explosives expert.” Greg paused. Mrs. Hudson seemed a likely source for gossip. “Hear they had a bit o’ trouble out there a while back.”

“You ask me they’ve had nothing but trouble.” Mrs. Hudson bustled around, nervously clearing the dishes. “Mr. Holmes and his brother are an okay sort, Lord knows we need some class in this town, but it’s been a tough year with all the thefts. And then Mr. Grant ran off.”

“He was the last dynamite man they had?” Fishing for information was Greg’s stock in trade.

“Mmmm....” She pursed her lips. “Now that’s a mystery that isn’t likely to be solved soon. No matter what young Mr. Sherlock thinks.”

“Sherlock, huh? Interesting name...”

Mrs. Hudson giggled as she scurried off to the kitchen.

Fingers licked and coffee downed Greg felt fresh and ready to face the day ahead. He squinted in the bright sunshine at the door, pulling down the brim of his hat. It was only a short walk to the other side of town.

 

                                                                                                 --------------------------

 

The offices of the Holmes Mining Company sat on a slight rise looking out over the rolling hills on the west side of Virginia City. An honest to God gardener, with some skill and experience, had obviously been making a valiant effort to grow English roses and some hardier blooms were still trying to hang on. The buildings formidable entrance was flanked by two white, wooden pillars.

The door was open. _Not the most secure place_.

Greg walked in unchallenged, removing his hat, and threw a friendly smile at the rather harried looking clerk at the reception.

Poring over a ledger book the clerk ignored Greg. Minutes ticked by. Greg cleared his throat loudly and the clerk jumped a foot in the air. Greg tried the smile again.

“How can I be of assistance, sir?”

“I’m Gregory Lestrade, the new explosives man,” he offered a handshake which the clerk regarded with a frown, “Come to start my new position? I’m to meet Mr. Holmes before reporting to the foreman.”

 “Wait here please.” The clerk entered the offices and spoke with someone inside. “Mr. Holmes will see you now.”

Nodding curtly Greg walked through the two wide, oak office doors.

A mammoth desk of solid mahogany, carved with a complicated rose pattern dominated the space. One wall held a beautiful red marble fireplace, blazing against the morning chill. More books than Greg had ever seen lined shelves set into the opposite wall.

It was an imposing room....but this was not the reason Greg stood frozen, speechless and open mouthed in the doorway.

Rising slowly, with a matching look of stunned recognition in his eyes, was the Boxer.

 


	3. Sherlock

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Holmes Mining Company was under attack and Sherlock had the evidence to finally  
> prove it. All he had to do was convince his obstinate brother.
> 
> Unfortunately it seemed that Mycroft was being inconveniently distracted....
> 
>  

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Note: Kudos and comments would be sooooo appreciated!
> 
> Chapters may be from the POV of several characters but the main action will center around Mycroft and Greg.
> 
> Much love and thanks to my wonderful cousin DaltonG for beta duties and inspiration.
> 
> Check out her Fawnlock fic - The Gates of Dawn.  
> Sherlock edit by spudqueen

 

 

Sherlock Holmes stormed up the front steps of the Holmes Mining offices, past the two obscene white pillars, which always reminded him of a certain gaudy oil painting of an ancient Greek fertility temple in Lady Forsythe's drawing room, and into the front reception.  Ignoring the indignant squawks of Mycroft's latest incompetent clerk, Sherlock swept into the office, shouldering past some fool standing motionless in the doorway, intent on informing Mycroft about the mornings discoveries.

He came to an abrupt stop halfway into the office, perplexed by the strange look on his brother's face.

Despite Sherlock's rather dramatic arrival, accented by a very well executed flourish of his new black duster, which he thought quite effective, Mycroft had ignored him.   He was staring, with what could only be described as a shocked look on his usually placid face, at the other man.  

 _Pupils dilated, flared nostrils, respiration increased, possibly perspiring...._ Perhaps shock was not accurate.  Mycroft looked ...well...aroused.

Interesting.

The man, in turn, was gaping like a bass on a hook.  Apparently he had gone from shocked, past aroused straight on to dumbfounded.   A tussle of blonde hair, going silver earlier than average if Sherlock was any judge, and he was, stood out at odd angles magnifying the effect.

_Travel stained coat over a clean collared shirt.  Horse hairs on the inside trouser leg.  Cheeks flushed. Strawberry jam on his lower lip, sure to be Mrs. Hudson's judging by the color and consistency.  Slight difference in skin pigment on ring finger suggested a recently ended relationship._

Wait... _that callus on his right hand_...this man knew how to handle a weapon. Sherlock took a closer look...a soldier’s bearing.  This one would require watching.

"What has happened?" Sherlock demanded, whirling around to confront Mycroft.

His inquiry seemed to break through whatever spell had been cast.  

Blinking as if to shake it off Mycroft graced his brother with a look of distaste.  "Must you trail mine dust into my office at every opportunity?"

“Must you gawk at every trail weary cowboy that rides into town?” Sherlock countered. “Who is this?” He whirled back around, because honestly why just turn casually when one had the opportunity to spread more of that annoying mine dust, and pointed accusingly at the interloper.

“Sorry ‘bout that, I am , uh...” The man stuttered, eyes flashing between the two brothers.

“Mr. Lestrade, the new explosives expert, I presume.” Mycroft voice had resumed it’s usual tone of composed authority. He nodded formally to the presumed-Lestrade.

Stepping forward and extending his hand toward Mycroft, with a deference he most certainly didn’t deserve, the man responded. “Yes, sir, I am Mr. Lestrade. I hope I haven’t come at a bad time.”

“Nonsense.” Sherlock declared, secretly enjoying the narrowing of Mycroft’s eyes at the interruption. “I have need of just such an expert as it happens. Come with me immediately.”

He headed back toward the doorway, motioning for Lestrade to follow. Commandeering Mycroft’s latest object of fascination was a skill Sherlock had mastered while still in nappies.

Incredibly, this Lestrade fellow refused to follow as instructed. He appeared to be as obstinate as his new employer. Worse yet, his gaze had not left Mycroft.

“I think my assignments are meant to come from Mr. Holmes here.” Lestrade declared in a deeply resonate New York accent.

Though it beggared belief a small, delighted smile had begun to curl up the edges of Mycroft’s thin lips, a behavior which must be stopped before it became the insulting smirk Sherlock knew all too well.

Right then.

“When you are through with your ridiculous introductions you might see fit to join me at the entrance to the new Carson’s Hill shaft,” Sherlock vented his frustration, “before Mr. Carmichael blows the latest blue lead and buries the evidence I found beneath tons of rock.”

Mycroft didn’t seem nearly concerned enough if Sherlock was any judge, and he was. “Well?”

“Instruct Mr. Carmichael, in polite terms, to delay briefly until we join him.”

They were still staring at each other.

Disgusting.

Sherlock smoothed his black duster carefully and, adjusting his bowler with a practiced hand, departed without another word. _Instruct Mr. Carmichael indeed_. As if anything Sherlock said would carry weight. _What could Mycroft be thinking of_?

The vestibule, and the reception desk, were unoccupied.

There was no sign of the clerk nor the usual crowd of penitents queuing for Mycroft’s time. The clerk was even more unfit than he thought. Abandoning his post like this. Anyone could walk in and ....wait.

Perhaps...

Sherlock turned back. In point of fact the doors were slightly ajar.

Carefully he peered through the crack.

Mycroft was standing rigidly behind three feet of protective mahogany. The man Lestrade had walked up to the desk, affecting a relaxed pose, betrayed by the nervous fingering of the stetson behind his back. It seemed a very personal moment, not meant to be seen by those not party to it.

This did not concern Sherlock in the least. It wasn’t spying if his concern for his brother’s state of mind was valid. Indeed it was his duty.

He strained to hear anything that might be said above the distant clattering of what passed for society in these parts. They certainly were not being verbose. Damn Mycroft and his stubborn insistence on form. Evidence could be disappearing as he...what was he doing anyway? Flirting?

Mycroft seemed to be deliberating, unsure how to start.

Sherlock couldn’t imagine what the issue could be. What was so important about the new explosives man?

“I’m pleased you are finally here, Mr. Lestrade. After Mr. Grant’s sudden departure we have been...well...it was inconvenient.” Lowering his gaze to his desk he shuffled papers unnecessarily.

“Glad I made good time traveling. I could head out with your brother and inspect the current diggings...if you want me to begin now, I mean.”

An awkward pause ensued. Lestrade ran his hand through his hair in a habitual fashion.

Mycroft’s reply, when it eventually came, held a note of challenge. “I trust your evening at the Brass Rail was not too taxing.”

Lestrade’s entire demeanor changed at this remark. He straightened into a position of attention, no doubt his military training kicking in at Mycroft’s tone of voice.

“Look, Mr. Holmes, I didn’t intend ..”

“Mycroft.”

“I’m sorry?” Lestrade stumbled.

“If you know me that well already I think perhaps you should call me by my given name. It’s Mycroft.”

He glanced up from his paper strewn desk with what looked, from Sherlock’s vantage point, like uncertainty. Sherlock would have sworn an hour ago that his brother did not know the meaning of the term.

Lestrade huffed out his surprise at this. He walked cautiously around the desk and stood close. Though Mycroft was taller he had yet to raise his head and make eye contact.

“I did not mean to spy on you last night. Or witness anything I shouldn’t have....” He was only two feet away from Mycroft.

He received no response.

Lestrade tried again. “Look, I know we don’t know each other but if you need someone to listen I have been told I’m good at it.”

Mycroft shook his head vehemently. “What you saw was..”

“I have first hand experience with what I saw.” Lestrade interrupted.

Mycroft looked up and met his eyes at that. “I see.”

“I was in a few, pretty violent, battles during the war. I shook like that for days after Gettysburg.” It was a confessional tone of voice which sounded odd coming from a man of his background. “Couldn’t believe I survived.”

Lestrade reached up, laying his right hand on Mycroft’s arm. Sherlock was now officially in shock. Mycroft never allowed any physical contact. He saw his brother stiffen but he didn’t protest.

“If something happened to you?” he murmured, hand reaching up intent on cupping Mycroft’s jaw.

It was then that Mycroft stepped away swiftly, moving to put the desk between them. “Yes, I thank you for your concern but I can assure you..”

A sudden racket intruded from the outside and Sherlock jumped, affecting as casual a pose as possible so as not to give anything away.

Quentin Frost hurried in with a dust covered miner on his heels. He brushed past Sherlock and into the office unannounced.

Sherlock could see the wayward clerk and a few others milling about nervously in the garden.

“Mr. Holmes! There has been an explosion at the number 2 shaft!”

“What happened? How many are injured?” Mycroft demanded, the earlier moments forgotten.

The miner gasped out, “Shaft number 2 is completely collapsed, sir. Don’t know what did it. Smoke and dust and rock everywhere. It’s awful...I know some are trapped in the shaft.”

It was in times of crisis that his brother rose to the challenge. Mycroft began issuing commands.

“Quentin, have the buckboard brought around and sound an alarm in the town. Bring every able bodied man to help in the rescue efforts.”

He turned to the miner. “Lead the way. Mr. Lestrade you are with me.”

They didn’t even notice Sherlock as they barreled out  of the building.  He followed them, dread coiling deep in his gut.

 


	4. Lestrade

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The trouble at Holmes Mining Company is growing out of control but undercover Pinkerton Agent Greg Lestrade can't seem to keep his professional distance when he meets Mycroft Holmes. 
> 
>  
> 
> Notes: Perhaps a warning for claustrophobia.
> 
> John Watson edit by Spudqueen

The noise was coming from somewhere over his left shoulder.

As he rose slowly out of the ocean of hazy unconsciousness, through layers of panic, he had to fight to focus on the noise as it was sucked under and spit back out of the ringing in his ears. Waves of throbbing, heated pain broke over him. The anticipation of the next wave threatened to overwhelm his thoughts but he fought for that sound...because it was a human sound. And that was all Greg Lestrade had.

It stopped.

He felt a moment of unreasonable terror, as if he had lost connection to a lifeline, keeping him above the water. Floundering, he tried to remember the sound, hoping this would bring it back. All Greg could hear now was an ominous groaning, timber and stone, and the trickling of small pebbles and debris.

Awareness flooded back in a torrent of feeling; flexing his fingers, stretching his cramped legs, the rise and fall of his shallow breath. Surges of pain narrowed to a throbbing in his temple and a stinging across his right side. Opening his eyes yielded nothing. Absolute blackness. _What? Where the fuck was he?_

Lifting his hand cautiously in the dark his bruised fingers felt the cold heaviness of rock not more than six inches above his nose. He ran his hand along the surface, moist and gritty, tracing the stone’s face. Icy water dripped down his forehead and slid beneath the studs of his collar. Fighting back the terror threatening he attempted to feel his way around. Immediately realizing the rock opened wider behind him, he shuffled backward awkwardly, scraping his shoulders on the ground in his urgency.

He paused, swallowing his desperate breathing. There it was again. A whispering grunt. Scratching. Another soft breath, like someone trying to summon the words they could not quite grasp.

And suddenly Greg remembered. _Running into the mine entrance. Acrid smell of burning black powder. A face turning in slow motion toward his shout._

Oh, God....that noise was Mycroft Holmes.

                                                                                        -------------------------------------

_Swinging into the flat bed in back of the buckboard wagon, with the miner and two other townspeople, as it lurched into motion, Greg kept his eyes trained on everything except the proud back of the man he had just tried to...what? Touch? Comfort? Kiss?_

_He prided himself on being a professional. Pinkerton had made the stakes of this investigation clear. There was no room for the personal in something like this; feelings led to distraction and clouded judgement. Feelings got people killed._

_Ever since that one bad night in Omaha, when his hesitation had nearly cost a friend’s life, Greg had vowed never again. And yet in one day, really within the space of a momentary meeting, he felt that vow disintegrating. In the fleeting brush of his fingertips over Mycroft’s soft beard..._

_What could he be thinking? Any chance at trust, at the truth of the situation, was likely gone now. A man like Mycroft Homes didn’t live in the same world Greg did. He wielded power, money and influence in Virginia City as if it was his natural state. Hell, his father was a member of their House of Lords. Mycroft grew up surrounded by priveledge. That man, sitting stiffly in the buckboard seat next to the driver with a white knuckled grip as the wheels bounced violently over the pitted road, likely was disgusted by his advances._

_Greg had stopped lying to himself years ago. Mycroft was not the first man he had considered...touching. Christ. Back alley fumbling with some young street tough he had sampled a plenty. Pleasure was something he rarely denied himself in his youth but this....this was something very different. Dangerous._

_Nothing more. Most likely Holmes would not acknowledge what almost happened anyway. Greg would deny his urges, as he knew he had to. That’s all this was. A moment of weakness which he would never let happen again. As the wagon careened around the side of a steep ridge and down into the trailings of the gold mine he struggled to renew his vow._

                                                                                      ----------------------------------------

“Mycroft!” Greg called out. “Mr. Holmes?” Movement came again from the left, somewhere in the darkness. Greg began to scoot toward the noise. Sharp rip. “Damnit!” He had torn his left side, warm blood running down under the tear in his shirt. He attempted to roll over, striking his elbow. Clutching the joint he groaned at the throbbing pain and in frustration.

An ominous shifting in the rock above, creaking loudly, overrode the pain of his injuries, inspiring a renewed effort to work his way to Mycroft. It was slow going, unable to see ahead in the confined space, until Greg remembered he had matches for his pipe in his pocket.

“Hold on Mycroft.”

Sliding his fingers down he pulled out the match box. Light blinded him for an instant, but as his eyes adjusted Greg saw they were in a tightly confined, narrow shaft of rock. Dust swirled through the air. Turning his head he caught a glimpse of Mycroft’s leg before the match burned his fingertip.

Reaching out, he grasped the soft, crumpled wool of the trousers. He slid carefully up until he was beside Mycroft. There was no movement. Apparently he was out cold. Tentatively, he extended his hand...it came away sticky. Mycroft was bleeding. “Don’t worry. They’re coming soon. Just stay with me.”

Fighting off a surge of hopelessness, Greg began to do something he hadn’t done since the war...pray.

                                                                                             -------------------------------

_Digging frantically, they had already dragged out one dead miner by the time the buckboard arrived. Greg jumped down and went to help with the rescue efforts as Mycroft strode over to speak with the mine foreman, anxiously poring over the map of tunnels and shafts, looking for a back way in to the site of the collapse._

_Sherlock arrived about ten minutes later, on horseback, leading several wagons chock full of townspeople. Bailing out of the wagon sides they started unloading rope, tools and blankets. To Greg’s surprise most seemed to accept Sherlock’s commands despite his youth. Apparently the Holmes name carried even more weight than he thought._

_A compact, sturdy man with tousled blonde hair and a no nonsense demeanor jumped down from the second wagon and set off, with a slight limp, toward the mine carrying a black doctor’s bag. He wore a tan flannel sack suit, the jacket of which was already thrown over his arm, incongruously paired with a flat topped derby hat as a nod toward fashion. Hustling up to where Greg, and a grimy team of men, were flinging stones and heavy wood beams away from just inside the mouth of the tunnel, the doctor said, “I was told there is an injured man they pulled out somewhere?”_

_Swinging away toward the shade tree where the dead man and another injured worker had been placed, Greg gestured “Over here, Doc.”_

_The dead man had been covered with a cloth and was laying some feet away. The injured man, one Alonzo Wilson, was a large man with a bushy beard, whose leg had been crushed. He seemed to be in agonizing pain, his broad face was twisted and his breathing fast._

_“Are you able to assist me with any patients?” the doctor asked, “fetch supplies and bandages and the like?”_

_“Of course Doc, I worked in a field hospital once during the war.”_

_“Excellent.” He began filling a syringe with morphine and injected the miner with the drug. “We’ll put a tourniquet here,” He pointed just above the knee several inches above the injury, “to stop the bleeding and I am giving him something for the pain.”_

_Greg held the man down as the doctor tied a belt around the leg and tightened it until the bleeding stopped. It was grisly work. The jagged ends of the crushed thigh bones poked through the skin. This would change this man’s life forever, if he lived through the trauma and all the bleeding, but it looked like this Doctor knew his medicine. There was a chance. Despite the morphine Wilson fainted._

_“I’m Greg Lestrade.” He said stretching over the prostrate miner to shake the doctor’s hand._

_He smiled grimly up at Greg, deep blue eyes squinting in the noontime sun. “Doctor John Watson.”_

_Shouting began anew inside the mine. “Sounds like they might have another one for us.”_

_Some time later Greg saw Sherlock, in shirtsleeves and covered from head to foot in black dust, come out of the mine entrance and make his way to where Mycroft was directing the rescue efforts. Pointing further down the gravel slope of the trailings he launched into an animated argument over something. Greg was too far to hear what was being said but it was obvious, even from where he was helping with the wounded, that Mycroft wasn’t pleased._

_Wiping sweat from his brow, Greg saw Sherlock mount a chestnut colored mare and take off down the road toward town, clods of clay and gravel from the trailings river bed flying behind him. Mycroft stared after him and then, leaning in to speak privately, gave instructions to his assistant Quentin. Quentin nodded and, swinging into the saddle, went after Sherlock._

_Two more men were brought out of the shaft alive with only minor injuries, so Greg helped transfer Mr. Wilson to the cart for the bumpy ride to town where Doc said his leg would have to be amputated. Turning around, toward the men crowded around the tunnel maps, Greg did not see Mycroft anywhere. Expecting he would be needed to work out the inevitable structural issues Greg started toward the crowd._

_As he approached the group a man, dressed in an oddly formal suit with a silk cravat, stepped in front of him._

_“Are you Mr. Lestrade?” He was the fanciest Irishman Greg had every seen and his voice had a quaver. “Mr. Holmes asked me to find you immediately and have you join him in the shaft entrance.”_

_Greg glanced at the townspeople, several of whom were looking at him now in curiosity. “And you are?”_

_The man ignored Greg’s question, tilting his head to the side. He twirled his first finger and swung it dramatically in the direction of the cleared tunnel mouth. “It’s just over there. I don’t think he would take kindly to a delay.”_

_Shaking his head, Greg turned toward the mine. The man watched him go._

_The closer Greg got to the opening the more his instincts told him something was not right. Several feet into the hole, around the first bend and piles of discarded rubble, the light suddenly dimmed. Further down two men stood near a flickering torch._

_Greg stopped. His nose flared and he inhaled in sharp surprise. He knew that scent; sweet, metallic and sulphuric. That was burning gunpowder. He began to run toward the two men, yelling and waving. He saw huge log beams used to support the tunnel blow apart and threw himself toward Mycroft, arms outstretched..._

                                                                                         ---------------------------------

It seemed like hours had gone by, time being hard to judge in the inky, echoing dark of the mine shaft. Several times he swore he heard voices calling from the outside but his cries were never answered. He knew another rescue effort was underway but an uneasy feeling of dread crept in.

Invisible slides of scratchy powdered dust slipped through the cracks between the stone and earth, working their way into Greg’s clothes and making him sneeze. He took out a handkerchief and wiped Mycroft’s face to clean the soot out of his eyes and mouth.

The man himself teetered on the edge of consciousness, groaning and moving restlessly. At times he murmured in a low, desperate breath but the words were impossible to understand. His left arm was trapped under a large log that had once been a support beam. Greg was almost grateful that Mycroft was unable to feel what would surely be a painful injury.

To keep himself from sliding into hallucinations and paranoia Greg began a rambling commentary, telling an unconscious Mycroft tales of his childhood in rural western New York; the time he had picked hundreds of poppies from a neighbors field to surprise his mother only to find out she was allergic, the night his father, a carpenter with a fondness for strong drink, had driven his cart off the roadway in a snowstorm and almost froze to death, the first time he had ever been kissed.

He paused, listening to his own scratchy tenor bounce off the slabs of rock around them.

It had been a long time since he had thought of that first kiss. The kiss had come from a boy who lived a few miles from the Lestrade’s farmstead. They had been friends for years. Greg could still remember the shocking softness of his friends lips.

“I knew what kissing was, of course.” He said into the stale, silty air. “But I didn’t know boys could kiss other boys. It was wet but warm and...damn...it was thrilling.”

There was no response from his insensible cellmate. Greg could hear his soft breath, even feel it whisper across his ear, only a few inches to his side in the gloom. He told himself, when he curled his arm around Mycroft’s waist and laid his head on his chest, that it was to fight the pervasive cold in the tomb like space.

“Somehow I knew that kiss wasn’t allowed. I never told anyone...over all these years.” Greg admitted.

“What happened to him?” Mycroft stirred.

Greg startled, rustling away guiltily from the other man’s side. A gloved hand pulled him back. Slowly he slid his arm back and nestled closer, wrapping his right leg over the other man’s leg. He could hear the steady thumping of his heartbeat through the thick wool coat.

Mycroft cleared his throat. “Well?”

“What?”

“The boy you...kissed? What happened between you?” Mycroft rasped.

“I never spoke to him again.”

“I see.”

Lestrade didn’t think he did see. He wasn’t sure he really understood what had happened. The day after the boy had kissed him the Confederates had fired on Fort Sumter and President Lincoln had sent out the call for volunteers to suppress the rebellion. Greg had signed up five days later with the 1st New York Volunteer Engineers Regiment. _I was seventeen...what the hell did I know about the world._

The silence stretched out between them.

“I’ve never kissed anyone...except my mother naturally.” It came out as a whisper. Greg wasn’t sure he had heard it. He was unsure how to respond to this confession.

“A woman, you mean?”

“I mean no one.” Mycroft sighed. “I’ve never truly desired any woman presented to me. And....the men who might have, in university, were....well they thought me too reserved, I imagine. In any event they never offered.”

He shuffled uneasily in the quiet. Greg’s mind raced.

Moving back he slid his hand into his pocket, fumbled with the match box and a light flared brightly in the small space. Mycroft turned his head away quickly, the light temporarily blinding them both. Greg scooted forward. “Mycroft. Look at me.”

Mycroft turned. “I don’t think....” He hesitated.

Greg could read the fear and longing flashing across the other man’s features. His eyes flicked down to Greg’s lips in the match light....and then slowly back up.

The match burned down. Greg threw the match behind him. Slowly he laid his fingertips on the edge of Mycroft’s jaw, rubbed his thumb lightly over the his open mouth, and pressed his lips softly to the other man’s.

Time seemed to waver. Mycroft trembled at his side.

“Okay?” Greg asked.

“I...yes.” It was all the reply Greg needed.

Pulling him closer, Greg ran his hand through Mycroft’s hair. He leaned in and kissed him more insistently, thrilling at the sharp intake of breath from Mycroft. Running his tongue along the seam of Mycroft’s lips Greg felt them open and deepened the kiss. Passion and arousal flared through his body. He felt Mycroft’s gloved hand slide up to cup his face, his thumb stroking Greg’s cheek; he let a soft groan escape.

Suddenly Mycroft broke off, turning his head away. “Wait. Did you hear that?” Greg stilled.

Then he heard it too. Someone’s voice. The clatter of rocks and debris being carefully pulled out and carted away. They had finally come for them.

 

 

 


	5. John

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Doctor John Watson is grateful that he was able to save the lives of so many  
> men from the tragic collapse of the Holmes Mine. He's exhausted the next morning  
> but at least now things can get back to normal.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Posted a few pictures I came across on the web and used for inspiration.
> 
> \- Virginia City, Montana 1868  
> \- Apothecary Shop ( what I imagine Mercer's looks like)  
> \- the six foot tall bear guarding Mercer's entrance.
> 
> Also a few research links on Civil War and Antebellum/Frontier Medicine in the end notes.

A feeble sun had been trying to peek through the clouds over the hills of southwestern Montana for several hours by the time Doctor John Watson finally stepped out his front door to face the day. Rubbing the sleep from his eyes, he stared down toward the main street in town. It was a mild day for late autumn, to be sure, but John hunched down into his heavy cloak, the one given to him by a grateful cavalry officer at Shiloh, and set off toward the apothecary shop.

He had managed to cadge a few hours of sleep, under an old Sioux blanket in the chair by the fire, but this seemed to have done little to renew him. His leg, hit by a mini ball round while tending to a fallen soldier in the war, ached something fierce today. Two cups of strongly brewed coffee and a rock hard biscuit, only edible when dipped in the coffee, were not really enough to revive John but his medicine bag was low and he would need supplies if he was to do right by all the patients he had to see today. And Doc Watson was always a man to do right.

His most critical patient, a burly miner with a great bushy beard, named Wilson, had survived the amputation of his leg but had required constant monitoring over the long night. He was resting now, under the watchful eye of Mrs. Hudson, who had volunteered to stand by as John made his rounds for the day.

 

                                                                       -----------------------------------

 

Mercer’s Apothecary Shop was sandwiched between Dance & Stuart’s General Merchandise and the Western Union Telegraph Office, both of which loomed over the shop’s low tin roof like over-protective big brothers. Despite his role as a practical man of medicine, John had always enjoyed the quirky, incongruous details of the store, like the six foot tall carved wooden bear guarding the front entrance, or the magical tinkle of the little brass doorbell.

The interior was clean and well organized with row upon row of glass jars and bottles lining the walls and display cases and wrought iron balance scales with brass knob weights. Coming here, John could imagine a sense of order to a world which often seemed bent on chaos and destruction.

He hummed to himself softly; it turned into a little song he remembered his mother singing while she did the wash. She was always on his mind of late.

Mr. Mercer’s apprentice, Edwin Chamberlain, was a slightly built man with straight dark hair, warm brown eyes and wire rimmed glasses. He was bustling around the counter, packaging a large order for Mrs. Coolidge, who was a difficult woman on her good days, in John’s experience, and apparently today was not a good day. John removed his hat, politely nodding in her direction, but feigned a fascination with a display of soaps in the far corner so as to avoid being drawn into the path of the storm of dissatisfaction that was Mrs. Coolidge. Lord help Mr. Coolidge, John thought.

When it appeared the coast was clear, Mrs. Coolidge having departed dramatically, John stepped forward to the counter.

Climbing down off a step ladder, Edwin spun around with a peculiar grin on his slender face. He held out a small burlap bag. “Picked some fresh Yarrow Root yesterday, Doc. Would you like me to fix up a measure of tincture for you and deliver it tonight?”

It often seemed to John that Edwin was suggesting something of a more personal nature, favoring him with a twinkle in his eye and a conspiratorial tone, but they were just talking about medicine. Even though Edwin did have some lovely high cheekbones, with the smooth, hairless jawline that seemed to trumpet his youth, surely he wasn’t flirting? No that couldn’t be right. John smiled in a not-too-friendly way, just in case.

“Thank you, but no, Edwin. I can pick up some of the new batch tomorrow. Think I will be set with what I have.”

“Disappointing Doc. What can I prepare for you today?”

John pulled out his hastily scribbled list. “Let’s see...I will definitely need at least two packets of opium powder. Also another pint of Quinine Sulfate Tonic and four ounces of Laudanum.”

“Will that be everything?”

“Actually I will need two ounces of patent lint and some camphor gum, say half an ounce.” He tucked the list away. John knew he would forget something, but that was to be expected on the meager ration of sleep he allowed himself.

While Edwin scurried about, weighing and packaging his order, John considered supplementing his paltry breakfast with a plate of buckwheat cakes, hot and smothered in honey, but he knew Mr. Holmes shoulder needed tending to. Best not to keep him waiting any longer than necessary. He sighed a wistful sigh, earning a curious glance from Edwin.

And then he would need to see to the complaints of the working girls at the Brass Rail; he always ended up reeking of the lavender water they used. On second thought, perhaps he ought to call on Mary before going to the Brass Rail. It wouldn’t do to go courting smelling like a whorehouse.

Mary was a lovely girl, a teacher at the local school house. They had been courting for almost two months at this point. He knew she was hoping for a more formal proposal, and he knew there was nothing important holding him back, but he just hadn’t found the right time yet. John liked to do things right. Surely she could wait just a bit longer.

Edwin’s slender fingers finished tying off the bundle of supplies. “I hear there was quite a bad accident at the Holmes mine yesterday.”

“It was rather bad.” John confirmed. “They lost two men and poor Mr. Wilson is laid up at my place missing his lower left leg.”

“I would be glad to help tend any patient you need a hand with. I expect you’re very busy and, if you don’t mind me saying so, you look a bit worn out today.”

“That I am.” John replied. “The offer is appreciated, but let’s see how it goes. I’m off to the Holmes house directly to see to the man himself.”

Edwin raised a brow in surprise. “How did he end up injured?”

“He was inspecting the damage when there was a second collapse. Had to dig him out along with two others, one of which was our second casualty.” John confided. “His shoulder was a mess, but he will recover eventually.”

“Somebody will pay through the nose for that.” Edwin commented wryly.

“No doubt.” John hefted his provisions and left before the speculation headed down that road. “Thanks Edwin. My best to Mr. Mercer.”

 

                                                                                              --------------------------------------

 

The street traffic had increased a considerable amount by the time John stepped off the boardwalk to head home. Wagons rumbled through. School children, swinging their book satchels, bounded past, chattering loudly. A lone dog trotted toward the stables. The Brass Rail appeared to be not only open, but doing a brisk business for before noon; a detachment of rowdy soldiers, covered in road dust and yelling for whiskey, had arrived from Fort Keogh. John wondered at the stepped-up patrols of late. Could be there was some unrest with the Sioux. Frowning, he swung back toward home, packages piled in his arms...

...And almost ran bodily into Lestrade, the man who had assisted him in the crisis at the mines, coming out of the Western Union offices. John fumbled his packages back into line, swearing under his breath.

“Mornin’ Doc. You’re out earlier than I thought, what with the day you had. How’s Mr. Wilson?” Lestrade looked unreasonably refreshed in comparison.

John huffed. “As well as can be expected, all things considered.”

“And Mr. Holmes’ shoulder?” Lestrade’s expression was carefully bland. John couldn’t imagine what that was about. Perhaps he felt guilty for not protecting his employer.

“I’m for home right now to replenish my kit bag and then I’m heading out to his house at the edge of town.” John considered for a moment. “You’re welcome to come along and see for yourself. Can’t guarantee he’ll see you but I could always use the company.”

Lestrade’s face lit up before he could school it back to unconcern. “I think I will come along, thanks. If he’s up to it, I should consult him about repairs that are needed at the mines.”

Lestrade took a few of the packages out of John’s load, tucking them under his arms. John led the way back to his house. Their arrival passed unnoticed as Mrs. Hudson was snoring softly, mouth open and head back along the wingback chair, and Mr. Wilson had not yet roused. John supposed someone should get rest, even if it wasn’t him.

Carefully unpacking his items and stowing them in their proper shelves, while Lestrade put on the coffee pot to boil, John contemplated his upcoming house call. Holmes was a wealthy, well connected community leader but a bit of an odd duck. John had seen him coming out of that closed door gentleman’s club, pulling on those long white gloves he always wore, _what was that about anyway,_ but hadn’t ever had any occasion to actually talk to him. He cut a fine figure in his frock coat and top hat but he was a bit offish for John’s liking. Best to be all business when he called.

 

                                                                                           -------------------------------------

 

Quentin Frost met them at the front door of the large house Holmes had built on the small rise overlooking the town. John had never had cause to come to the residence, though he had attended an injured mine foreman at the offices in town once, so he wasn’t sure what he expected. He just knew this wasn’t it. This house was so...understated.

He supposed with Holmes being the closest thing to English royalty they had in this forsaken corner of the Montana Territories he imagined turrets and a sweeping front walk. Surely they had a butler at the very least. Quentin was a bit of a disappointment.

“Doctor Watson, Mr. Lestrade right this way please.” He indicated the carved wood staircase on the left side of the entryway.

He led them down a long, dark hall to the very end and knocked softly. A murmured response came from inside and Quentin entered, announcing them.

“The doctor is here, Mr. Holmes.”

“And Mr. Lestrade also, I see.” Holmes remarked with a raised eyebrow.

John noted, with some satisfaction, that this room, presumably Homes’ private bed chamber, was decorated in the more sumptuous style he had suspected. A huge, four poster bed, in richly glowing mahogany, dominated the room, heavy red velvet curtains pulled back on the sides, and the man himself was sitting stiffly inside, his nightshirt pulled aside, partially covered in a cream colored damask coverlet. He looked more royal than any man with a heavily bandaged shoulder had a right to.

“Can I bring you any refreshment?” Quentin asked.

“They are not here for a social call, Quentin.” Holmes’ tone was terse.

“Of course, sir.” Quentin responded, unperturbed, and backed out of the room, closing the large double doors.

John straightened into what he thought of as his professional doctor posture. He proceeded to unpack the needed items from his bag. Lestrade withdrew into a corner and peered out the window at the town down the hill.

“How is your pain today Mr. Holmes? Did you sleep well?” He glanced up from his tools when there was no reply.

His patient was staring at Lestrade’s back but broke from his reverie and blinked at John. He shook his head, seeming annoyed at his own inattention. John wondered, not for the first time, what had been said between his patient and Lestrade while they were trapped together in such a dire situation.

“The pain is manageable.” The tension in his voice suggested otherwise.

“Manageable?” John challenged.

“The morphine was quite effective at rendering me unconscious last night. Perhaps something less...assertive...might be prescribed today. I have a great deal to attend to, as you can imagine after all that has happened, and need to be clear headed.”

While he could understand being worried about what happened it irked John to see Holmes take such a cavalier attitude about his recovery. Ideally he should be resting, in bed, for at least a week. John didn’t like his chances but he felt he had to try to convince Holmes that this was serious.

He put on his best authoritative tone that never failed to impress the wounded soldiers under his care during the war. “Mr. Holmes I think your shoulder will need a week, or more, of undisturbed rest. Infections like gangrene are not to be trifled with. I can trust you to listen to your doctor, right?”

“I’m sure I will be fine. After all, if I sense infection setting in, I am sure I can count on you to respond promptly, Doctor Watson.”

 _Officious bastard_.

John was just calculating the odds of Lestrade, who had been studiously ignoring their exchange, backing his position on this when a commotion began below.

The doors flew open, banging against the wall, admitting a tall, thin man, his fine-boned face framed in a mane of loose, dark curls.

“It was just as I suspected,” his deep voice boomed out.

Quentin came in right behind him but stopped, realizing the damage was done, and shrugged in apology; who was he to stop this force of nature. The man headed straight for the bed.

Force of nature or not, John was in the middle of an examination. He stepped directly in the man’s path, hands on his hips in protest at the interruption.The man had the gall to look astounded. He gawked at John as if he had just realized anyone else was even in the room.

“You will need to wait outside.” John found that directness was always necessary with people like this. “I am examining Mr. Holmes and we require privacy. Step outside and we will let you know when we’re done.”

“My apologies Doctor Watson.” Holmes seemed to be trying to suppress both irritation and amusement at the same time. “I realize it is hard to tell, with his atrocious lack of manners, but this is my younger brother, Sherlock.”

The younger Holmes, who up until this pronouncement appeared to be memorizing John’s every detail, rolled his eyes in exasperation. “Moriarty is here and he has Grant. You know what this means Mycroft.”

“Grant? The missing explosives man?” Lestrade stepped away from the window, suddenly alert.

Mycroft held his hand up to forestall further questions from Lestrade.   He motioned his brother forward and John stepped aside, unsure what exactly was going on.  Mycroft tilted his head and squinted seriously at Sherlock.  “What evidence do you have that this is Moriarty?”

“We don’t have time for this.”

“Nevertheless. What did you find?” Mycroft was not deterred by Sherlock’s drama.

Everyone turned to the younger man. Sherlock began to pace the room, from bed to doorway and back, waving his arms for emphasis. John noted his billowing black duster flared dramatically with every turn. It was quite a performance.

“You know of Grant’s penchant for women of a certain... domineering disposition?” He paused for effect. “I went to Madame Adler’s establishment, where Grant had taken a room, one presumes to make more efficient use of his leisure time for it certainly wasn’t the luxurious accommodations, and demanded access. We were fortunate in two things: they had not been thorough in their cleaning of the room Grant had stayed in, and the sun had finally come out.”

“I’m sorry.” Information was coming in faster than John typically preferred. “What difference would the sun make?”

Sherlock whirled toward him. “It has been overcast and snowy for the last two weeks. I discovered latent footprints on the floorboards next to the window that would have been undetectable without the slanting sunshine. Someone was there, waiting for Grant to come home. The first kidnapper was over six foot three inches and recently discharged from his enlistment in the cavalry, judging by the size and the hobnail pattern of the imprints, and most certainly the strong arm in this scenario. I could see he struggled with Grant at first, the marks being scuffled in one area, but then Grant relented and walked calmly out with them. I imagine they threatened his wife and child who, I understand, are soon to arrive from the eastern coast.”

“Why do you think it was this Moriarty character?” Lestrade asked.

Sherlock looked directly at Mycroft as he spoke to see the effect of his words. “The other man, the intellect behind all this, was Irish. From Belfast, or the northern counties.”

“How could you possibly know that?” Lestrade scoffed.

John saw Sherlock’s full lips tighten as he sneered at the other man. “Because unlike you, I observe. The windowsill was covered in ashes, with a distinctive color and powdery grain, from a very specific brand of hand-rolled Irish cigars called Condors from Gallaher Tobacconists. They are associated with a politically violent wing of the Irish Republican Brotherhood. No Englishman would consider smoking them. But Mycroft and I have had dealings, if you could call them that, with a ruthless madman who favors this exact brand.”

“You are amazing.” John had to admit he was a bit mesmerized by Sherlock’s deductions. He knew he was grinning at a rather inappropriate time but he couldn’t help himself.

Sherlock turned back to him, his lips pursing in a confused frown. “I am? That’s not what people usually say.”

“What you just did was truly astounding.” John watched as the other man’s eyebrows performed an acrobatic series of emotional changes. He seemed uncertain at his reception. John would bet that was not a feeling Sherlock was familiar with. “What do most people say?”

Sherlock huffed. “They say 'shut the hell up'...”

John stared at Sherlock. And he stared back, his mouth curling up. They both started laughing.

Mycroft Holmes interrupted. “Yes, I am sure this all very amusing but I assure you if this is Mr. Moriarty, and his gang of Fenian hooligans, it is not to be taken lightly.”

“It is Moriarty,” Sherlock insisted, his tone getting deep and serious, “though God only knows what he hopes to accomplish. We must act before he moves against us again.”

“Mr. Grant knows the entirety of our organization.” Mycroft began to pull his shirt back on over his injured shoulder. “If we don’t get him back we are all vulnerable to whatever vengeful plot Mr. Moriarty may devise. I assume you have an idea of where they may have taken him?”

Sherlock nodded in the affirmative.

“Very well. Go to Mr. Stevens and make him aware of the situation. Instruct him to provide you with as many of his men as you think you will need to rescue Mr. Grant."

John began pack his instruments rapidly. Mary might be upset that he did not come calling tonight but surely she would understand.

Mycroft swung his legs over the edge of the bed, grunting in discomfort. Lestrade rushed over to him, helping him to stand carefully.

Sherlock spun around to go and John grabbed his bag, coat and hat. “I’m coming with you. You might find yourself in need of a doctor.”

“Hmm...I might at that.” He paused and looked over his shoulder. “Coming Lestrade?”

“I would ask Mr. Lestrade to remain with me for the time being. We have things to discuss regarding the mines. Send word where you are and I will send him to meet you.”

Sherlock nodded decisively and stalked out through the doors, long graceful legs eating up the distance and John hurried out behind him, struggling to keep up.

“Be careful little brother." Mycroft said softly to Sherlock’s back.

 

 

 

             

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Links:
> 
> 1\. Doctors, treatments, surgical conditions and drugs. - http://vermontcivilwar.org/medic/medicine3.php
> 
> 2\. Mountain Man Medicine (time period up to 1870). Includes a cool list of the medical supplies carried by Lewis and Clark on their expedition. Primary source based and chock full of neat details. -http://www.mman.us/medicines.htm
> 
> 3\. Western Slang Words -http://freepages.genealogy.rootsweb.ancestry.com/~poindexterfamily/OldWestSlang.html


	6. Mycroft

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> As Sherlock and his new protege John Watson head out the door, hot on the trail of Moriarty, they leave Mycroft and Greg alone, together, to fight their own, more personal, battle.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So...warning there will be some good, old fashioned hot boy on boy action from here on out. If that isn't your thing you should avoid this chapter. Heck you should probably just find a different fic altogether.
> 
> Also, warnings for PTSD, past assault(of a non-sexual nature) and depression.

 

It was impossible to know if the events being set in motion would end in tragedy or save the lives and fortunes of all those he cared about. As Mycroft watched his brilliant, temperamental younger brother sweep out of the room, the stalwart Doctor Watson at his side, he knew that he had to embrace the path of action.  Greg Lestrade stood quietly behind him.  He could sense the solid warmth of him, this man he barely knew yet already bared his soul to.  Somehow he must put that away.  He had no idea how that would be possible.

Today, this very day, despite his injuries and emotional turmoil, he must find out the cold, hard facts.  Knowing if Sherlock was right, though his mind recoiled at the thought of Moriarty being here, stalking him in his home, would be crucial to determining his next moves.  If necessary he would seek out help from those he knew in power, for giving up was not in his nature.  He had fought too long, and worked too hard to see his world destroyed.

\--------------------------------

Three years ago, on a cold, snowy January evening Mycroft had sat by a fireplace in Leith Hall, his family estate in the North East of Scotland.  The bruises on his face had all but healed, fading to a sickly yellow. Breathing was still uncomfortable, at times, as his broken ribs would take many more weeks to mend.  His mind, indeed his soul, seemed permanently scarred.

  
His attackers had beaten him and taken with them all the light in the world, leaving nothing but grey- eternal grey.  Most of the time he felt completely numb; at unexpected and inopportune moments his anger and fear would bubble over, intimidating and uncontrollable.   

That very morning he had screamed at Nana Hobbs, who had raised him like he was her own, often his only source of affection and attention as his parents were frequently traveling.  She had cried.  Discovering that she had packed away his beloved chess set, inherited from his Grandfather Holmes, in the attic had ignited a panic in his mind, a certainty that nothing would ever be safe or stable in the world again.  Such a small thing brought on such an overwhelming premonition of dread.  

Loosing that fear and anger on Nana Hobbs was unforgivable, no matter what he had gone through.  His apologies had been almost tearful, unheard of in the Holmes house, and a sure sign of Mycroft’s fragile emotions, but she had accepted them with a demur hug.  She had even come to him, as he sat by the fire that night, with a warm cup of sweet tea, the cure for everything that could be wrong with the world, and some of her homemade madeleines, lemony and warm from the oven.  He smiled dutifully, but inside his guilt consumed him.  It was time to decide.

Would he allow these bullies, these thugs in tails and top hats, to take from him his heart, his courage, his manhood?  He thought not.  He was a Holmes, after all.  Though Mycroft suspected his father knew the reason they had dragged him into that alley, beating and kicking and yelling, he also knew they would never discuss it.  His father loved his sons, in his own way at least, but he could never really accept them...how different they were.  

Leaving England to make his own life in the frontier of America, no matter how lonely and dangerous, offered Mycroft a chance to be his own man.  A chance to heal.  A chance to find meaning in his life.  He had decided.

\--------------------------------

Turning around slowly his eyes focused on Greg.  He searched his handsome face; noting the way his beard was coming in, a soft stubbled outline over his cheeks; drinking in the concern in his deep brown eyes; fascinated by the sensual way he chewed his bottom lip, a habit he was surely not conscious of.

Bugger.  This was not helping matters.  He must be firm with this man.  Things could not be allowed to go any further.  They must both accept that this relationship was impossible.  He steeled himself and looked away, turning toward his wardrobe and making a pretense of interest in his cravats.

“Mr. Lestrade, we must discuss what occurred in the mines.”

Neither man pretended they were referring to the collapse of the rock or the possibility of a saboteur.  Unsure how to proceed, Mycroft paused, collecting his thoughts and ruthlessly suppressing his feelings.

Greg let out a sigh.  “I am not sorry that I kissed you.  I don’t think you regret it either.”

Mycroft chose a cravat. It was ebony silk to match his mood.

“I did not say I regretted anything, but surely you must see that there can never be anything between us.”

“There is already something between us...don’t tell me you don’t feel it too.”

Standing in front of his dressing table, surreptitiously glancing at Greg in the mirror, he set the cravat down and began to fumble with the buttons on his shirt.  His injured shoulder was in a sling and making do with just his right hand proved frustrating.  He swore under his breath.

“The world is not kind to men who...want what we want.  It is not the way of things.  I am...grateful that you gave me that one moment.  I will cherish it.  But that is all it is.  A moment. Our relationship..."

"Mycroft..." Greg tried to interrupt.

"...shall be a professional one.  I am the owner of this company and you will be my foreman, indeed you will be my most trusted advisor on how we should proceed with the mining operations but ...we shall never have...”

Emotion choked up in Mycroft’s throat, the dull throbbing pain in his useless shoulder seemed to draw attention to it, and he struggled to maintain his composure.  He tried to focus on the buttons, not daring to look at Greg in the mirror, afraid of what he might see on the other man’s face.

One button stuck. Mycroft slammed his right hand down in frustration. "Damnit!"

Greg stepped up behind him. His voice was subdued.  “Let me help you dress....please."

He reached both hands around Mycroft’s middle and started to slowly push the little pearl buttons through each individual eyelet.  Mycroft could sense the presence of Greg’s body.  He was only standing a few inches behind him.  He could hear his slow and steady breathes.  There was a tension and stillness in his posture which spoke of the care he was taking.

“I don’t regret what happened between us.” Greg repeated firmly.

“Yes.” Mycroft all but whispered.

“Maybe you don’t want that...?”  It came out as an accusation but sounded like a question.

Mycroft seethed.    

_He vividly remembered that intoxicating kiss, the warm wetness of his lips, the flick of that insistent tongue. God, the taste of him.  Just the memory brought a flush to his face.  It made him want much darker, more deviant things.   Things he knew Greg had never dreamt of.  A kiss was romantic.  Passionate even.  But Greg could never guess ..._

“You have no idea what I want!”  He hissed.  He could see Greg wince in the reflection.  The hands stopped buttoning.  

"Fair enough." Greg was staring at Mycroft intently in the mirror.  Mycroft could not quite find the nerve to look up and meet that gaze.  The other man stepped back.  

There was a soft rustling as Greg removed his coat and folded it in a slow, deliberate fashion, placing it over the back of a nearby chair.  He unbuttoned and slipped off his waistcoat, laying it over the duster.

_What could he possibly be doing?_

Mycroft followed all this in the reflection of the mirror, unable to look away now that Greg was disrobing.  It seemed as if he intended a private show, something for just the two of them.

Greg stepped closer, almost pressing his back, his legs, his face against Mycroft's body.  Heat radiated through the thin material of his shirt, through his trousers, through the strong, firmly muscled arms he placed around each side of Mycroft's still form, not touching, hands set on the table.

Neither man moved.  Every nerve in Mycroft's body vibrated with almost touching.

"Why don't you tell me what you want right now?" Greg breathed in his ear. "Can you tell me?"

Greg reached up, stroking the side of Mycroft's soft beard with the backside of his hand.  Cupping his chin, Greg guided his head firmly to the side.  Those sensuous lips began to kiss the sensitive side of Mycroft's neck, shifting the focus to the press and release of his mouth and the humid puff of his breath.  He closed his eyes and simply drank in the sensations.

"Is this what you want?"  Greg murmured.

He didn't wait for a response.  Nimble fingers that had been closing buttons minutes ago were now unbuttoning them, the soft cotton of Mycroft's shirt parted as he worked down the row, the tips of Greg's callused fingers brushing the ticklish curl of his chest hairs.  At the end of the row he pulled open both sides of the shirt, careful of Mycroft's bandaged shoulder, and they both stared at the expanse of bare skin it revealed.

Greg stroked his hand up from quivering belly to chest.  A broad thumb rubbed lightly over a nipple. Mycroft jumped at the sensation, feeling his prick begin to swell in his trousers.

He could hear Greg's breathing grow faster.  "Is this what you want?"

Mycroft could not reconnect, could not make his mouth work to answer.  A quiet noise worked it's way out, almost a whimper.  Greg had paused, staring into his eyes, a gentle question in that look.  Mycroft managed to nod.

Greg pursed his lips in a slight frown. “I need to hear you say it, Mycroft. Do you want this? Yes or no?”

All thoughts of denial had fled Mycroft’s mind. The tiny hairs on the back of his neck seemed tuned to the lips just one inch behind them. It was taking all of his remaining self control not to lean back and press his backside against Greg. He did want it, this intimacy he never thought he would experience.

“Yes.” Mycroft said, voice thick with want.

Greg took a short step away. He placed his hand on Mycroft’s good shoulder and spoke in a voice of quiet command. “Take one step back, Mycroft...leave your hand on the table.”

Something in Mycroft shivered at his tone. He knew he would give himself over to this man...this man he trusted, without really understanding the reason why. Stepping backwards, he left his hand on the table, fingertips steepled on the smooth wood. He waited.

Reaching around his sides again, Greg began to work the pewter buttons of Mycroft’s fly. He pressed his body into Mycroft’s back, his broad chest muscles flexing against the arched spine of the man he was holding as his fingers moved with a new urgency. The evidence of his growing arousal rubbed with aching slowness along Mycroft’s arse, lighting up new nerve endings he never knew he had. Just the knowledge of what could happen, if not for the thin barrier of their clothing, made Mycroft’s cock hard and heavy.

“I have wanted to do this since before I even met you. That night, when I saw you striding into the saloon, all confidence and strength, I imagined....God, Mycroft, your long legs...” Mycroft could hear the desire in his voice.

“Then I saw you, the next day in your office, and I wanted to touch you...”

The final fly button came undone.

“...like this.” Greg groaned.

He slid his hand down Mycroft’s stomach, into his trousers, under the lip of his cotton drawers, and took his warm member into his hand. He began to stroke him, velvety skin slipping over rigid flesh. Mycroft closed his eyes, trembling in his lover’s arms.

“Last night, in my bed,” Greg continued, running his fingers over the top of Mycroft’s throbbing prick, smearing the glob of pre-cum that had formed around the head and over the shaft, “I dreamed of what it would feel like to thrust my cock into your backside...just...like...this.”

Greg’s grip tightened and his rhythm became fast and erratic. Mycroft could feel his balls pull up. His heart hammered in his chest. He knew he couldn’t hold on much longer.

“Greg...please!” He begged.

“Yes, come for me Mycroft. Let me see that beautiful cock of yours coming all over my hand.”

As if he had been holding on for that order, Mycroft cried out hoarsely, his seed spurting out of him, over Greg’s hand and striping the dressing table in front of him. He bent over a little ways, his hand still locked in place on the table top, and thrust his arse out into Greg wantonly. Greg cursed loudly, both hands grabbing hold on each side, and his thrusts became wild.

He came a few seconds later, pulsing inside his trousers. “Yes... Oh God...Mycroft!”

  
Greg slumped over him, breathing heavy. He was running his hand down Mycroft’s softening length, rubbing his ball sack, kissing the nape of his neck. They stayed like this for a minute, allowing their pulses to slow down.

  
Finally, Greg staggered back about a foot. Mycroft rose up slowly, leaning back for support, his body relaxed and boneless. Greg’s arms wrapped carefully around his waist.

“Come back here to the bed. Careful of your shoulder.” Greg began to walk him back to the edge of the four poster. He set him down gently.

  
Mycroft lay back on the coverlet. He felt drained, physically and emotionally. He was pretty sure he would panic later, but at this moment he felt safe. He smiled lazily.

Greg chuckled. “I never knew how much I would like your smile until now.”

  
Pouring wash water from a pitcher into the bowl, Greg wet a washcloth and wrung the excess out. Sitting on the bed he began to clean Mycroft.  It was an act of great tenderness. Neither man spoke.

Greg stood, undoing his fly. Pulling himself out he methodically cleaned and wiped away as much of the mess as he could. Mycroft watched with hooded eyes, not thinking, just absorbing all the details of Greg.

“We must leave soon.” Mycroft broke the silence. “If you would help me dress, we need to go into town. I must send a telegraph to my contacts in New York.”

“So you believe Sherlock is right?” Greg asked.

Mycroft hummed low and brooding. “Unfortunately my brother is rarely wrong about these things.”

“Who is this Moriarty fellow?”

“My father is a peer of the realm, a member of the House of Lords.” Mycroft explained, “Though his politics are sympathetic to the plight of Ireland, Mr. Moriarty has decided Father must personally pay for the devastation his countrymen suffered. If Sherlock is correct, I am to suffer also, it seems, by extension.”

Carefully removing his injured shoulder from the sling Greg helped him into his vest, and then slid his arm into his frock coat, gingerly tying the sling back in place.

Greg cleared his throat. “You should know that I understand your position here. Outside of this room we are professionals. I will help in whatever way I can.”

“Thank you for that, Gregory.” Mycroft held out his good hand and allowed Greg to slip on his glove. “Shall we proceed?”

They walked through the bedroom door, down the stairs and out into the bright sunlight of the early afternoon together.


	7. Irene

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Mrs. Adler's place was well known among those who liked a different type of pleasure. She had built her own small empire, safe under the guise of civilized society and controlled, most unusually, by a woman. Now that empire was in peril, threatened not only by hidden crimes and impending violence, but by the most dangerous thing of all....love.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warnings for incest & sexual violence in the past.
> 
>  
> 
> Irene Adler Edit by Spudqueen.

Fear was not something that Irene Adler allowed herself to experience.  It was an indulgence, a weakness for those with less heart and guts, and she had no time for it.  

In her old life fear had been like a film that clung to her skin, a constant reminder that she was her father's property, to be dressed up and shown off, and, when he was feeling powerless and full of whiskey, to visit in the middle of the night.  Eventually she would be sold, like valuable livestock, to the wealthiest suitor, no matter how brutish or coarse he might be.  Irene had watched her sisters auctioned off and knew she had to do something.

She would end the terror. A young Irene, all of sixteen years old, hid a knife under her pillow and waited for her father's next assault. That film of fear...she had washed it off along with the blood that coated her hands that murderous night.  She left it behind, in South Carolina, and not once did she look over her shoulder.  

Traveling across the rugged country, penniless and dependent on whatever powerful man she could seduce, submitting to their appetites to survive, Irene had vowed that things would be different when she reached Montana.  Her life would be created anew. She would be the one in control and fear would have no place in her new life.

Yet here it was. In the unlikely form of an earnest young man and his patient, steadfast affection.  For the first time someone else's life had become important to her.  Desperately important.  And now that life might be in danger.  Yes, Edwin Chamberlain was a problem.

He had never touched her, though she had accused him of harboring lecherous desires often enough, and indeed pushed him to indulge those same fantasies, questioning his virility and manhood when he did not give in to her goading, but she had no doubt he wanted to.  At the very suggestion he would frown, narrowing those warm, brown eyes, and deny that his intentions were anything but honorable but she had caught him looking.  

He had a thoughtful face.  Open and honest like no man she had ever met.  And those delicious, almost aristocratic, cheekbones.  So delicate for a man.  What would it be like to watch them flush in the heat of passion?  

“Damn!” Irene scolded herself, “Here you are daydreaming like a besotted debutante.”

Staring at her reflection in the large, oval mirror which stood in the corner of her private apartments, she touched her face, probing an eye, swollen from her last client, who had required more than the usual discipline for his enthusiasm.  Her eyes were her best feature.  A man in Tennessee had once told Irene that she had the greenest eyes he had ever seen; they could be calm as a still ocean or flash in anger like a sudden squall, breaking over any unwary sailor who chanced those waters.  Fierce was the word most used to describe her. This woman staring back at her, protected inside her armor of red satin and powdered breasts, was not a woman who fell in love.

And yet that love was here, wanted or not.  It wasn’t lust; she had dealt with that often enough.  No, love was far more insidious.  Slipping inside it had sunk it’s treacherous claws into her heart and now she was contemplating doing something she knew to be insane.   

That demented Irishman was downstairs, sipping whiskey without the slightest intention of actually drinking it, and waiting to close the vise around her....even kill her.  She had no doubt that he would not stop at threatening Edwin if he thought it would keep her in line.  

He was standing right next to Edwin downstairs. She wondered if O’Leary knew of their affection for one another.  He would enjoy using that sliver of love and hope in her life against her.  She had seen the twisted smile he employed to underline his gleeful violence.  

Anger flooded through her.  It might be naive, to love Edwin.  But she would be damned if she would allow that madman to destroy the only happiness she had known.

Her mind made up, Irene felt better.  Action always calmed her, no matter what the results might be.  

She repeated her mantra, a quote from President Andrew Jackson, whom her father had loved, “I was born for the storm, and calm doesn’t suit me.”

Plastering an artificial smile on her face Irene opened the door and called for Eve, her assistant, to attend her.  Relaying her instructions, she watched from the shadows of the upper balcony as Eve approached Edwin, whispering suggestively in his ear.  His look of surprise might have been comical, if not for the tension of the moment, but he nodded to her and followed her without so much as a glance in Irene’s direction.  

\-------------------------------------

She was composed when the knock came.  “Come in.”

“Mr. Chamberlain is here, Mrs. Adler,” Eve announced formally, but then leaned in the doorway to murmur, “and Mr. O’Leary is growing... restless.”  She stepped aside to allow Edwin in the room.

The door closed with a thud.  Edwin’s uncertain smile changed into a look of concern as he approached Irene, who was standing by the window overlooking the back lot.

“Are you in danger?”  His unexpected insight into her situation caught her unaware.

“Danger? Hardly.”  Irene bluffed, lowering her voice suggestively.  “I wanted to see you in private for...well...private reasons.”  

Edwin started as she touched his face. _So smooth and soft for a man_.  
Irene felt drawn in, leaning close to kiss those pouting lips...which suddenly weren’t there.

He had stepped back, holding his hand up to stop her.  “Irene, you must tell me what is going on.  Teasing me will not distract me.  Not when you are so obviously upset.”

“I would never tease you, Edwin.” She tried a playful tone of voice.

“Irene...”  He warned.

She dropped her hand and wheeled around in frustration, staring out the window.   _Why was she so transparent with him?_  

“I can’t see what I have done to deserve this rejection from you.”  Knowing she shouldn’t take her anguished mood out on him did not stop her from doing it.

He stepped up to the window, “Irene, look at me.”

She huffed stubbornly.  This was what love did to her.

“Look at me!”  He insisted, emotion coloring his tenor voice.  “You need help.  This in not the time for you to be alone.  Surely you know you can trust me.”

She did trust him, of course.  Fool that she was.  I have to make him understand the danger...that I couldn’t say no to this man.  He would forgive her if he knew the stakes. She quashed the desperation in her thoughts and looked up at him.

“I am sure this will be a shock to you...”

“Mmmm...” He hummed to himself.

“...I find myself ensnared in a trap, baited by a very dangerous man.”

“What kind of trap?”

Irene hesitated, not wanting to confess how things had grown so far beyond her control.  She was under no illusion that Edwin thought her an angel; he knew, without her saying so explicitly, that her profession made it necessary to deal with some very unsavory sorts.  He accepted her, despite her reputation as a fallen woman.  When others despised the bordello madame and avoided her, he admired her tenacity and intelligence.  This was something new and precious in her life.  If Edwin realized how truly immoral she was...

“I will not judge you, whatever it might be,”  He said, reading her mind.

“I know.” Somehow she knew this to be true.

All in, as they said at the tables. “I have been forced to play the accomplice to a very vicious criminal.  He is waiting for me, at the bar, as we speak....I am not sure what to do.”

“What crime are you complicit in?” Edwin asked.

“There is a man... being held in the cellar of this building.  A man called Grant.  I’m afraid his captors are planning to kill him tonight...”

\----------------------------------

Descending the staircase at a leisurely pace, Irene graced every man she passed, unwashed miners and perfumed gents alike, with a knowing smile; the look said she knew why they were there, and even though no one would be so coarse as to mention it, and she would make sure they got it.  It was habit by now.  Like a corset giving her backbone and shape. Her clients returned her smile, tipping their hats.

She could still feel where Edwin had enveloped her in his arms; the smell of him, fresh and clean, lingered in her mind.  Brief though it was, that embrace, the first time he had touched her in such a way, sustained her as she prepared for the confrontation with O’Leary. She could not fail tonight, for his sake.

Edwin had left through the back staircase to fetch a buckboard, which the Apothecary used for supplies, and would move Grant, who was drugged unconscious, with Eve’s help, to a safe location.  Irene would keep O’Leary occupied until Edwin returned.

She saw the Irishman straighten, flashing his disturbing smile at her and raising his drink in mocking tribute as she wound her way through the crowd.  

“I trust you are having an enjoyable, and highly profitable, evening?” he said, smirking as she frowned in response. O’Leary knew money was not discussed. To do so was to imply she was a common, street level whore.

Irene fought to ignore the jibe. “Mr. O’Leary. What a pleasure. What can I do for you?”

“The pleasure is all mine, I am sure.” He replied in that sing-song voice of his. He sketched an aborted bow, ridicule under a thin guise of formality. “I imagine Mr. Moran made it clear what will happen tonight...he does so have a way with words.”  
“We will not discuss that here...” Irene lowered her voice, aware of all the men crowding around the bar area.

“Oh, Mrs. Adler...”he countered, “I think I will discuss it wherever it pleases me...”

The threat was there but he kept his voice low all the same. Irene knew O’Leary did not want any undue attention that might ruin his plans. The threatening tone let her know who would pay if those plans weren’t realized though.

Just then Moran barged through, interrupting them. “Holmes is on his way in with his brother and a few men.”

O’Leary glanced toward the door nervously. “Well...it seems we will have to continue our conversation later tonight, charming though it is.”

“A pity.” Irene wondered why Holmes arrival had caused this sudden departure, but wouldn’t question her good luck. She smiled. “You may use the side door, behind the bar, for your exit if that is more convenient.”

Moran grabbed her arm roughly, digging his meaty fingers in painfully. “Don’t get to feelin’ so smart. We’ll be back soon enough an’ you’ll be ready for us, right?”

The two men turned and slipped through the crowd.

Irene rubbed her arm, where Moran’s harsh grip was sure to leave bruises. She watched them head out the side door, safely diverted from Edwin’s activities in the back...or so she hoped. There was no time to check on that now. Her doorman, Collins, was greeting Holmes’ party at the front door and she turned to deal with them, a mask of pleasure covering the apprehension she felt.

Stepping forward she purred, “The Holmes brothers, and two handsome friends. What an unexpected treat...”

“I doubt our arrival is much of a surprise.” the younger Holmes asserted angrily, his clear blue eyes focused on Irene’s carefully bland expression. “You are holding our man, Mr. Grant, captive after all!”

 

 


	8. Sherlock

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> At the advanced age of twenty four Sherlock Holmes knew a great deal about the world. He understood the limitations the average person lived with but was certain they did not apply to him.
> 
> And then he met someone who changed all that...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> No warnings that I can think of.
> 
> Comments are the whipped cream of my kudos cappuccino! I need a fix.

If you had asked, three days past, what Sherlock Holmes understood to be true in this world you might be forgiven for scoffing at his arrogance. He knew beyond any doubt, for instance, that the body was simply transport for the mind. Supply it with the basic nutrients and rest when no other option existed. Any sexual needs were to be dealt with expeditiously, preferably without resorting to physical contact with others. Annoying requirements. Nothing more.

Mycroft had always said ‘Caring was not an advantage’; that philosophy had suited Sherlock perfectly for twenty four years. It was possible, he reflected as the carriage trundled into town over the rutted trail that passed for roads in these parts, that he cared for, perhaps even loved his brother, though he would not admit that under anything but the direst of circumstances. Caring for an outsider? He could not summon even a sliver of enthusiasm for the idea.

But that was three days ago. Before John Watson.

Sherlock knew, was dead certain three days ago, that romantic love, and the emotional trauma that accompanied it for most people, was something he would never be afflicted with. Indeed, he was quite sure that weakness did not run in his family. If his father loved them he had the decency not to embarrass them with it. He had always assumed love was his mother’s purview. She could be counted on to fuss over them, Sherlock especially as he was her favorite, smoothing their suit coats or kissing their cheek. He and his brother had seemed immune to such ridiculous notions. Now he was not so certain.

Deep inside Sherlock, under all the bluster of his persona, and the whirling stampede of observations and theories that constantly threatened to trample the mental order he strove to maintain, lived the treacherous seed of doubt. How would anyone ever really understand him? Put up with his never ending experimenting? His penchant for cards and the occasional whiskey? Find his long, angular face attractive? Love him even?

Not likely, the seed whispered.

Sherlock glanced at Mycroft, sitting ramrod straight on the cushioned bench to his left, and observed another crack in the foundation of his life. Mycroft’s expression was the same carefully neutral mask of control he always wore, but his eyes betrayed some inner turmoil, drawn, as if by some irresistible force, to the man riding his horse along side the carriage.

 _Flushed cheeks, increased respiration, the repetitive rubbing of his umbrella handle with his thumb._ All signs of attraction. Something Sherlock was not sure he approved of in his brother. Mycroft was supposed to be bedrock that never changed and Sherlock the one who challenged the status quo, using his intellect and unquestioned charisma to solve problems.

What had happened between Lestrade and his normally immovable brother was unknown, but worrying. Lestrade was deferential toward Mycroft in public, everything an employee should be. But Sherlock's instincts told him this was no ordinary relationship. Any fool could see the physical tension between them. This could spell trouble and they had enough of that in their lives as it was.

On the other hand, he doubted those around them would notice their attraction. Most people were idiots who missed what was right in front of them, so perhaps he should respect his brother's privacy. He doubted Mycroft would care to discuss it and he wouldn’t know where to begin that conversation regardless.

Before he was caught staring too long Sherlock looked away. There was no question what his brother’s retort would be. He was, after all was said and done, guilty of the same crime as he suspected Mycroft of committing. Crimes he would have never conceived of three days ago.

That was before Doctor John Watson stepped in front of him, with that determined way he had. Before John had risked his own life chasing a gang of road agents they had tracked down through the canyons in Alder Gulch, shooting one as he swung around to aim at Sherlock.

Before he had woken up in a strange bed, with John’s arm flung across his stomach and his soft stubbled cheek warm on his chest. His quiet respirations seemed a balm to the loneliness which had become Sherlock's life, seemingly without him even knowing. What would it be like to wake to this contentment every morning?

He had felt the urge then, unprecedented in his life, to kiss another person. _A man. What a surprise. How had this happened?_

He had fallen into an exhausted sleep the night before, watching John clean his old army issue single action colt revolver, cursing under his breath. An errant wave of brown hair was sticking out from the side of his head in the light of his oil lamp; if the world were a different place Sherlock might have reached over to smooth it back into place. That must be what the penny dreadfuls referred to as...well...affection. He had no idea at what hour John had collapsed beside him.

A smile began to steal across Sherlock’s face at the memory. Shaking his head, he caught himself. Next he would be gazing longingly at John’s full lips or some such nonsense. Things might have changed in the last three days but they had not changed that much. Mycroft could not be allowed to read the changes John had wrought. He schooled his features before his brother noticed and attempted to focus on the confrontation they were heading into.

\-------------------------------

They met John, Mycroft’s head of security Mr. Stevens, and three of his men at the entrance to Madame Adler’s establishment. Stepping out of the coupe, Mycroft alighted gracefully, almost before the horses had brought it to a complete halt. He tucked his umbrella under one arm as he pulled at his white deerskin gloves, a nervous habit that was the only real indication of his tension. Lestrade dismounted nearby, tying off his mount and drawing a long Smith & Wesson revolver, checking it’s action with a practiced hand.

He exchanged a long, serious look with Mycroft. “How would you like to handle this, Mr. Holmes?”

“She will not be aware that Sherlock discovered her complicity in Mr. Grant’s kidnapping. We will confront her while you cover the back exit. Take these two men with you.” Mycroft gestured toward two stout looking men in dusters Mr. Stevens had brought to meet them.

Lestrade nodded in confirmation.

“It is entirely possible Moriarty and his men will be inside.” Mycroft paused, concern evident in his frown.

“Sounds dangerous. You don’t need me to back you up?” Lestrade asked.

“We will fine in the public of the main salon...” Mycroft began, reassurance in his tone.

Sherlock needed to assert control over this conversation before Mycroft reduced himself to an emotional appeal. “John, you will accompany Lestrade to the back. Wait for our signal to enter.”

John nodded brusquely. The line of his mouth was firm but there was a certain twinkle in his eye. Sherlock wondered if John felt the thrill of the hunt as he did. Another thing he would not admit, for it would be seen as bad form.

Lestrade looked to Mycroft, who raised his hand to forestall any further concerns. “Please, Mr. Lestrade, do as my brother asks. If anyone attempts escape out the back entrance, detain them and send one of our men to alert us.”

They turned away and headed toward the alley which led around the back of the bordello. As he followed Mycroft and Mr. Stevens to the front entranceSherlock caught John glancing at him over his shoulder. John held his eyes a little too long. Sherlock felt a flush of pleasure at the concern he saw there. _Was this how all people felt? Could one love another man in that way?_ He had no idea.

Christ, he was worse than Mycroft. He hurried to draw even with his brother. They marched up the front steps and through into the warmth of the house’s parlor.

The entryway had a more subdued atmosphere than any brothel Sherlock had had the dubious pleasure of experiencing. A thin veneer of respectability hung over the proceedings as if the customers were not aware of, or at least willing to acknowledge, the services they were here to secure. Peculiar and specialized services if the rumors Sherlock had heard were true. He had no doubt they were.

A butler, of sorts, greeted them at the door. He was tall and gaunt, with white whiskery sideburns that dominated his face, and wore formal evening dress as if Queen Victoria herself might arrive one night soon. Mycroft handed his hat to him, asking to speak to Mrs. Adler immediately on an urgent matter. Sherlock had no patience for such pleasantries and brushed past the man into the bar area, eyes scanning the crowd for a sign of Moriarty.

As he was joined by his brother and the others Sherlock spied Mrs. Adler walking toward them, her pace calm and unhurried, and a smile that managed to convey both pleasure and barely contained aggression gracing her visage. She was nothing if not a professional madam, projecting sexual energy like a shield around her, but Sherlock could read the strain in the stiffness of her neck, the tight squint of her eyes and the nervous glances she kept throwing toward the exit behind her.

Her voice was admirably steady. “The Holmes brothers, and two handsome friends. What an unexpected treat...”

“I doubt we our arrival is much of a surprise.” Sherlock challenged her before Mycroft could hold him back. He saw her nostrils flare in irritation at his demanding tone. “You are holding our man, Mr. Grant, captive after all!”

Irene Adler briefly lost her smile at his unexpected assertion, but recovered quickly and turned to Mycroft. “I understand it has been a distressing time for you both, however I have not seen Mr. Grant for several weeks now.”

Mycroft laid a gloved hand on Sherlock’s forearm. Despite the deceptive calm of his words no sane person would mistake Mycroft's smile as anything pleasant. “Mrs. Adler, you will lead us to where you are holding Mr. Grant. If there is someone here intimidating you, I am in a position to protect you. If you persist in denying your involvement I will use those same forces to shut this business down this very night. Be assured I do not make idle threats.”

Irene’s expression froze, uncertainty and anger warred inside her and she opened her mouth to throw Mycroft’s accusations back at him when the sound of gunfire erupted from the rear of the building. The crowd reacted chaotically, some ducking behind tables, some charging for the front door.

  
Irene whirled around toward the direction of the violent gunshots. Stevens stepped in front of Mycroft to protect him and drew his pistol. Sherlock dove around him, their other man hot on his heels, and headed toward where he knew John and Lestrade were in danger. The crowd swarmed in and out of his path, desperate in their fear.

As he reached the back entrance one of Mycroft’s men came in and yelled above the fracas. “Mr. Holmes, come quickly! The alley is secure but Mr. Lestrade has been shot!”


	9. Lestrade & Mycroft

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It is said that you don't know what you have, how much you care for someone, until you realize you might lose them.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's possible there might be men loving other men here, sometimes quite graphically. If that's not your thing, turn back now.

Greg would later blame the urge to laugh, which obviously was not an appropriate reaction to being shot, on the adrenaline. The look of shock on John’s face was almost comical. The angry roar he belted out as Greg fell though, was frightening, and followed quickly by a volley of gunfire as John charged their assailants, all fear forgotten in his protective rage.

The ground rushed up to meet him, and Greg felt the onslaught of pain from the bullet’s path, a molten poker burning through his side, and then the gush of blood soaking his clothes. The back of his head struck the sharp edge of a rough pine crate, then the hard packed dirt of the alley,  
making his vision swim as he fought to stay conscious.

The deafening noise of the gun battle ended suddenly. Desperate sounds echoed in the confines of the alley: a confusion of scuffling, muffled cursing, splintering wood.  Hand pressed into his side, Greg struggled to roll his head toward the action, needing to know what was happening even though he could do nothing to aid his friends.  

"Get Sherlock and Mr. Holmes...now!"  John bellowed at someone in the alley as he came to a lurching halt next to Greg and dropped to the ground to examine the wound.  

"John... What....?" Greg couldn't form the question through the pain.  

"All but one escaped.  Rollins is still in pursuit. The Holmes brothers are on their way." John lifted the blood soaked coat and cursed creatively.  "I know it hurts...lift your hand so I can get a look."

Greg drew in a sharp breath as John probed his side carefully. "Think... the pain... is the only thing keeping me from passing out."

A brief commotion nearby signaled the arrival of Mycroft and Sherlock.  Relief coursed through Greg as he realized Mycroft was okay; the violent attack had not reached inside the building.

Mycroft knelt next to his head, his expression tight as he saw the blood which had pooled on the ground. "We agreed you would be careful.” He leaned close to Greg. “You are not going to die.  I will not allow it."

Mycroft's words were clear, but his voice trembled with barely controlled emotion.  Greg knew his anger was justified.  Grant was dead; he had seen them loading his limp body into a wagon as he and John came around the corner of the building.  They had wrung the information out of the poor man and now they had what they needed. Greg was too late.  He had failed him and now Mycroft was in danger.

"I think it looks worse than it is, but I need to get him inside to get a better idea." John said, looking up to reassure them.

Two men rushed over at Mycroft's sharp command. "Lift him, with great care, and take him inside to the first bedroom in the hall to your right."

Greg reached up to grasp Mycroft's arm, feeling a desperate need to apologize.  Just then unseen hands gripped his shoulders and his legs, lifting him up to carry him into the building. A wave of pain and nausea swept over him.  As his body began to drag him under, slipping him into unconsciousness and away from the trauma, his perceptions blurred.  Mycroft was yelling at someone....moving away toward the alley. He thought he saw Sherlock grasping his brothers shoulder, speaking urgently to him...

\-----------------------------------------

 

The question had never been if Madame Adler was aiding Moriarty. Sherlock had found shocking proof of her collusion that day in the personal effects of the terrorist road agent gang; three tintype photos of Grant, his face swollen and bruised and his hands tied, were discovered. The background was a office room inside the bordello, the hands holding Grant’s lolling head up were a woman’s. A silver ring identified just which woman it was.

Perhaps the images were meant for a blackmail scheme. They would likely never know.

No, the question wasn’t her involvement but her culpability. It was important to ascertain if she had joined him willingly or under duress. Judging by the nervous, fearful expression Adler was trying desperately to cover as they confronted her, Mycroft thought he had his answer.

All his thoughts were so focused on the woman in front of him that the explosive concussions from outside didn’t immediately register until Stevens grabbed his arm roughly, shoving him back, and drawing his gun.

In a flash Sherlock had ducked around Stevens and was barging through the panicking crowd toward the gunshots. Mycroft cursed, pushing at Stevens' broad back, yelling in an attempt to move him and follow his brother.

“Move!” Mycroft grabbed at the burly man’s collar, jerking him close forcefully, and yelled above the din. “Now, Mr. Stevens!”

Stevens began shoving his way through the crowd toward the back door, gun barrel pointed at the ceiling. Mycroft used his umbrella to beat people back, anger motivating each swing.

As they reached the back of the room one of his men came busting through the back door. He yelled. “Mr. Holmes, come quickly! The alley is secure but Mr. Lestrade has been shot!”

Fear, like an ice cold bucket of water, flooded Mycroft’s mind. They stumbled out the back door, into the cold of the alleyway, almost knocking over Sherlock in their haste.

In the dim light Mycroft could see a buckboard wagon to his left, horses being held by one man as they shied nervously, and two men holding a shorter man down on the ground, struggling to control him. Crates were stacked to his right, voices coming from behind them. As they approached Mycroft saw Greg, prostrate in the dirt, legs askew. Doctor Watson was bent over him, working furiously.

He fell to his knees beside Greg. Sherlock joined him in the hard packed dirt, turning toward John to ask him something. All else faded from Mycroft’s mind as he saw the blood on the ground, on his lovers clothes, and the agony in his eyes.

He knew then, with a chilling certainty, that he could lose Greg.

 _This couldn’t be happening._ Someone had finally dared to love him, after the numb isolation of all these past years. He hadn’t just cared for Mycroft, he had touched him. With affection. With passion. Of all the people in his lonely life this man, Greg Lestrade, had drawn him out from behind his walls. Seeing him like this, Mycroft knew with sudden clarity that he loved this man.

And he might never get the chance to tell him.

He leaned down, his voice quavering with pent up fear and frustration. "We agreed you would be careful.”

Greg winced in pain. Mycroft growled in desperation. “You are not going to die.  I will not allow it."

Doctor Watson looked up from his efforts. "I think it looks worse than it is, but I need to get him inside to get a better idea."

Mycroft called for help, holding on to hope. Two of his men lifted Greg up, hustling him into the building. He was placed gently on a large feather bed in one of the first rooms they came to. Greg had passed out, whether that was a bad omen or a blessing Mycroft was not sure.

Doctor Watson began issuing orders, calling for more light and hot water and bandages. Mycroft sent Stevens out to the coupe to fetch John’s doctor’s bag and Sherlock to deal with Irene Adler and the captured assailant in the alley. He stood by Greg’s side, stroking his arm absently, unable to comfort him.

\------------------------------------

Greg gripped Mycroft’s wrists, holding them firmly together and moved the other man’s arms up to the headboard of the massive, four poster bed. Sliding up his lover's warm, naked form he straddled his chest and smiled down at the handsome face, rubbing the tip of his aching, hard prick teasingly across Mycroft’s lips. Mycroft opened his mouth, attempting to capture Greg with his wet tongue and draw him in.

Greg chuckled. “Oh no, Mr. Holmes, you have to earn that first.”

Lifting his cock he slid one heavy, round testicle into Mycroft’s mouth, sighing in pleasure. “That’s right. Suck my balls....just like that. Ah...”

Mycroft’s eyes were closed in concentration. Greg imagined he was cataloging all the new scents and textures as his tongue flickered and rolled sloppily around. He was so intense. So eager.

Greg splayed his hands on either side of Mycroft’s face, sliding his thumbs over the man’s full bottom lip and into his mouth, prying it gently open. He slid the sensitive head of his cock, already moist with pre cum, into that hot wetness. Mycroft suckled him. The small grunts he was making were so erotic. Greg rocked, slowly, in and out, his length slick with Mycroft’s saliva.

“So good....Christ, Mycroft.” Greg closed his eyes, savoring the feel of those slippery lips, the pleasure of each shallow thrust so much more intense because he knew whose mouth he was entering. This was the man he loved. He could admit that...here in this intimate moment.

Greg strained to control the urge to push all the way in. Mycroft had never done this...needed to take things very slow. He didn’t want to hurt his inexperienced lover, but.... _God_...he wanted to fuck deep into that mouth.

Greg pulled out slowly, both men breathing heavily. Twisting around he reached behind him. He began lazily stroking Mycroft’s long, slender member, sliding his foreskin up and over the tip. Mycroft’s hips bucked and he let loose a strained groan.

“Ummm, you like that, do you?” Greg voice held the promise of more if Mycroft would just admit his need...beg for it.

Holding onto the other man’s wrists with one hand, Greg slid back down grinding his hardness against Mycroft’s groin, rubbing in a delicious friction.  
He kissed that luscious mouth, where his cock had just been, sucking Mycroft’s tongue into his own mouth. “Mmmmm....”

Breaking off he whispered seductively in his ear. “What do you want, Mycroft? Ask me and I’ll do it... I’ll do anything for you.”

“Anything?” Mycroft’s eyes popped open, an ugly sneer transforming his face from ecstasy to fury.

 _What? What had happened?_ Greg’s mind struggled to understand what he had done wrong. _Had he hurt Mycroft somehow?_

Suddenly, Mycroft loomed over the bed, his voice boomed with an unnatural anger. “You failed me! You let them escape, let them kill Grant, and now they are coming for me and all that I have will be destroyed!”

Greg thrashed away from the accusations, his hands flying in front of him, whether in defense or supplication he didn’t know. Guilt at what he had allowed to happen in that alley slammed into him. His heart was pounding in a terrible, galloping rhythm.

Looking up in terror Greg’s mouth fell open in shock. A thin line of blood had opened up along Mycroft’s forehead, dripping down into his beard. His horrified face was wavering in and out of view. “Why Greg? I thought you cared for me...Why!?”

\-------------------------------

The fire had burned down to embers in the early, quiet hours of the morning when Mycroft woke from his shallow sleep to Greg’s thrashing and hoarse cries. He struggled out of the blanket someone had tucked over him and stumbled over to the side of the bed. The sheets were soaked again.

This was the second night Mycroft had sat vigil over Greg. Doctor Watson had said that the fever from the wound’s infection would break soon. By morning they would know. Placing the back of his hand over Greg’s forehead he felt the fever still raging. Mycroft wet another cloth in the washbowl and wiped his face gently.

“Mycr....I...sorry....No! I didn’t mean it....” Greg’s arms flung out violently and Mycroft grabbed them, wrapping himself around the man tightly to still his unconscious flailing. He rocked back and forth slowly, as he remembered his mother doing during some childhood illness, stroking Greg's sweat plastered hair.

“Hush.” He tried to speak in a soothing tone, not letting any of his worry seep into his words. “Everything is fine, Greg. You are going to be alright.”

He held him in his arms, willing it to be so, willing Greg to feel him there with him, protecting him from whatever nightmare had taken hold of him.

Hours went by. The two men slept fitfully, curled around each other.

The sunlight was quite strong by the time Mycroft startled awake. It streamed through the thin curtains and across the bedspread. He could hear the noise of other people outside the room: doors shutting and someone coughing. Looking down at Greg’s peaceful face he realized the fever had broken.

Mycroft felt all the tension and worry of the past two days break. Grateful tears welled up and slipped down his cheeks, dripping into his mouth, salty and wet. His chest shook. A small sob escaped.

It would be alright. Everything would be alright. Greg would live.


	10. Edwin

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Edwin Chamberlain believed he was the master of his own fate. He was not like other men. He lived a hidden life.
> 
> And now that hidden life had been exposed....

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Same notes as last chapter...different pronouns.
> 
> Every time my FIC gets kudos, an angel gets her wings.

Not more than two weeks into his service in the Union Army, after a particularly grueling battle in which the Rebs, who outnumbered them two to one, had charged their position several times with a ferocity that began to border on desperation, Edwin earned the nickname ‘the badger’. It was given to him by his best friend, and tent mate, Jedidiah Johnson, who claimed Edwin fought with all the tenacity and ‘outright balls’ that the badger apparently possessed when defending it’s own den. Edwin knew he was wrong about the ‘balls’, he was just as scared as any man, but tenacity, he thought, he could righteously lay claim to.

That was until today. Today, his secret had been revealed; his carefully crafted life had come crashing down. Today, he had been exposed for the fraud that he was. Today, Edwin Chamberlain was running away. And he didn’t know to what would happen next.

The secret was out. He had guarded it for four years, through the terror and hardships of life as a Union infantryman. Muddy marches in West Virginia. Bushwhacking up mountainsides in Tennessee. Running ammunition and messages through the chaotic battlefields of Pennsylvania. Physically smaller than the other men, he made up for it in determination and endurance. Edwin had been well liked by his fellow soldiers, though he never drank or visited the brothels with them. All along his secret kept him safe.

He had struck out over the Oregon Trail, a long, arduous trip in a rickety wagon with no privacy, bent on starting a new life in the Montana Territories. His secret had given him opportunities he could not have dreamed of back east, trapped in the gilded cage of his father’s home. But it had also cost him dearly: affection, intimacy, love. These things were for normal people. People without a secret life.

Hands shaking, he stopped packing long enough to gingerly feel his bandaged left side, remembering...

_“A bruised rib, thankfully not broken.” the Doc had said without further judgement or comment, turning back to wash his hands in the basin._

_The injury was already dressed when Edwin had regained consciousness in the back bedroom at Madame Adler’s place. He was in the very bed Irene slept in each night, her brush on the bedside table, the scent of her lavender perfume on the soft, cotton pillowcase. A bed he had never shared, though he had seen it in his dreams often enough._

_He knew he had been exposed from the brusque, professional way Doc Watson was packing his tools, avoiding the shame and fear in Edwin’s eyes. Yes, Doc knew. But perhaps..._

_“Doc, I need to say...that I hope I might appeal to our friendship...” he started, unsure of how to broach the subject._

_Doc glanced up at Edwin, a frown forming across his normally pleasant features. He shook his head. “Stop. I know what you are going to say but it might be a bit late for that.”_

_“I don’t know how to explain.” Edwin said, ribs aching with every breath. “If you could keep this between us...I know it’s a shock...”_

_“Edwin....if that is your name, I wasn’t the only one in the room when you were brought in unconscious.” Doc shot him a sympathetic look, “Mrs. Adler insisted on being here to help tend to you.”_

_“Oh...I see.” Edwin looked down at his feet, feeling panic bubbling up, threatening to take over, filling his mind with a sudden desire to bolt out of the room. He had to get far away from here._

_Doc seemed to be taking it in stride, but Irene wouldn’t. He could imagine her face growing cold, shutting down as the implications of all that had passed between them became clear. She would hate his deception; she would hate him._

_For all he knew she had already told everyone. Mr. Mercer, who had been, without success, trying to fix Edwin up with his daughter, would be appalled. The last two years of hard work would count for little. Mercer had a temper; he would scream without a thought to who might hear him. Edwin knew what could happen then. No, Edwin needed to be long gone by the time Mr. Mercer found out._

_Edwin wanted to scream to himself, in frustrated anger. If only he had been thinking about the consequences, the dangers, of getting involved. But where Irene was concerned he was often reckless; he couldn’t bear to think of her in danger. And look what that had cost him._

_All he had achieved, all those late nights spent organizing and cataloguing, and all he had studied in the hopes of a new career as an apothecary...it was all gone now. If only he could turn back time. Leave that alley five minutes earlier. But life didn’t work that way. Instead, fate had laughed at his feeble attempts at a normal life._

Enough... lurching back into action he finished packing his meager possessions and headed for the door to the store, intent on gathering a few medical supplies before slipping out the back and into the night. He knew the trails into Indian country like the back of his hand. He could be in the Lakota village by sunrise. He had a friend there. He had studied with them, learning the ways they used herbs and seeds to heal sickness and treat wounds. The Lakota were a spiritual people who saw the world in all it’s dimensions. They didn’t judge him. They would understand.

Donning his winter coat and wide brimmed Quaker hat Edwin opened the door, slipping into the dark hallway that led to the Apothecary shop.

“Edwin...” That voice, coming from the back doorway, could only belong to one person. “Were you truly going to leave me here, alone with those vultures?”

He wheeled around, heart pounding. Irene Adler, dressed in flaming red silk, stood in the doorway, framed in the light from the shop. Her face was hidden in shadow. He could see her long, slender hands clutched tightly at her sides.

What could he possibly say to her?

She stepped toward him, carefully. “I knew...you were different than any man I had ever met. I didn’t realize...couldn’t have imagined how different...”

As she stopped, not a foot from where Edwin stood, frozen in shock, he could see she had been crying. His heart ached for the pain he had caused. Nothing he could say could make this better for her.

Irene’s shaking hand reached up, cupping his face. Her voice was soft. “What is your real name?”

Edwin couldn’t lie to her anymore. “Molly. My name is Molly Hooper.”

\----------------------------------------

Irene had followed Molly, as she pushed past in the hall and into the Apothecary shop, saying they needed to talk about this, but so far she had said nothing. Out in front of the long, narrow shop the streets were busy with townspeople hurrying by in the frigid night. The occasional wagon rumbled by. A short, bald man in a ridiculously large, floppy hat stopped to light a cigar, framed in the shadowy outline of the shop’s large windows. Irene did not seem to notice any of it.

She stood still, the flickering lamp light from the street out front barely illuminating her tense face, and watched Molly gathering the medicines and supplies she would need to survive on the road: linen bandages for her ribs, laudanum for the pain. Molly decided to keep the small, brass mortar and pestle she had bought in Chicago. She shoved that down to the bottom of the bag.

“It doesn’t matter to me.” Irene broke the silence, her voice low and fragile.

Molly knew that couldn’t be true. It was the shock talking. Irene had very unusual ideas about physical intimacy, but she always chose men. Soon enough she would realize that they could never have....whatever she had intended for them before tonight. No, Molly had no choice but to leave and hope that Irene would forgive her someday.  
Hefting her knapsack over her shoulder proved difficult, as her bruised ribs made every move a painful trial, but she managed and tried to push past the other woman. Irene grabbed her arm. Molly stopped at her side, not daring to meet her eyes.

“You think I don’t understand, but I do.” Irene’s voice was a whisper but there was anger and hurt behind each word. “I understand more than you could know.”

“You think you do but..”

Irene’s hand tightened it’s grip, anchoring Molly. “I know you. This does not change what we have between us. At least not for me.”

Molly’s heart was hammering in her chest. She loved this woman. This incredibly strong, gutsy woman with her sharp intellect and domineering will. She could be audacious. Even harsh, at times. There were many in town who saw Madame Adler as a fallen woman, devoid of morals and incapable of affection. Molly knew different.  
Irene held her emotions deep inside her, but to those she let in, those who had seen her softer side like Molly had, she was fiercely loyal. She was more than any man could ever hope to possess. She deserved better. Molly knew what she had to do.

“There is nothing between us. How could there be? Do you think I could truly be attracted to you?” Amazed that her voice was steady, but unable to meet the other woman’s eyes, Molly pushed on. “It was an act. You were a convenient way to avoid suspicions, nothing more.”

Aside from a slight tightening of Irene’s hands on her arm there was no reply. Molly could hear her breath coming faster. She wished Irene would react. Push her aside. Yell. Claw at her face. Anything but this silence.  
She wrenched her arm away. She took two steps toward the back room door and stopped. “I don’t...love you.”

“I would believe you if you could look me in the eye.” Irene said quietly.

Molly couldn’t move. Couldn’t turn to face her. She heard movement behind her. A rustling of fabric. “Look at me Molly.”

Her satchel slid to the floor. She turned slowly to face Irene. Her breath caught.

A pile of deep red satin material lay pooled at her feet. She was slowly untying the long ribbons which held her corset tight. When that was done, she dropped the corset too and stepped forward, pulling her hair down and shaking it loose. Irene stood naked before her in the middle of the shop floor, not more than a foot away, A wavering shaft of lamplight caught her from behind. She was radiant. She was vulnerable. Molly had never seen anything so beautiful. She couldn’t look away.

Irene approached her and took Molly’s hand, slowly placing it over her warm, bare breast. She was staring intently, eyes dark. Molly felt Irene’s nipple harden under her. Her hand moved of it’s own volition, the flat of her palm rubbing lightly over that nipple. Irene gasped.

That was all Molly could take. Any resistance, any denial, crumbled with the power her hand now possessed. She wanted to hear that gasp again.

Pushing Irene against the shop counter, Molly thrust her other hand into the warm wetness between those legs, stroking the slick folds and probing with her fingers. Irene was so aroused. Molly’s middle finger suddenly slipped deep inside, burying itself in pulsing heat, and Irene moaned loudly, pushing her hips down on Molly’s hand and writhing. Irene’s hands gripped the rounded wooden railing behind her tightly.

Adding another finger Molly took control of the rhythm, sliding her fingers all the way into and out of Irene’s cunt. Her breathing accelerated. The aching pain from her bruised ribs faded into the back of Molly’s mind. Nothing would stop this now.

Molly began to trail hot, messy kisses down Irene’s exposed neck. Long, dark hair tickled the side of her face and she inhaled deeply, taking in the smell of the lavender perfume the woman wore. It was intoxicating. The feeling of this woman she never thought she would ever be allowed to touch. Now she wanted to touch. Touch all of Irene. Breathe in every scent from every secret corner. Hear the noise she would make as she climaxed, a sound meant only for Molly.

Her lips found a full, round breast and Molly did not tease the erect nipple she discovered there; she latched onto it, sucking and rolling it in her mouth. Lightly she pulled it between her teeth, flicking the sensitive end with the tip of her tongue. Molly knew what that felt like. Like a direct connection to your cunt.

“Oh...just....just keep doing that.” Irene exhaled, words uncontrolled and desperate. It seemed that Irene’s breasts were just as responsive as hers. Molly felt her own body flush in arousal.

Irene’s long, slender fingers slid behind her head and seized a handful of Molly’s short hair. She pushed Molly’s head down toward her crotch. “Molly..please.” She was panting. She was pleading. “Put your mouth on me...please.”

Molly fell to her knees, unable to deny that request. Reaching up, she spread Irene’s legs further apart. Looking up in the dim light she saw Irene staring down at her. Holding that gaze, Molly leaned forward and tasted her lover, running the tip of her tongue through the swollen folds and circling the little button hidden within.

There was a long, deep inhale from above her. “Oh....God...”

With one hand Irene began to rub her own nipple, while the other pushed Molly’s face into her mound. The moans were getting louder now.  
Molly swirled her tongue around, sucking lightly. She slid her thumb inside Irene’s opening, pumping as she worked her mouth, and eased her middle finger, slick with Irene’s viscous fluids, stealthily through the crease of her buttocks. Rubbing the knot of flesh she found there brought a satisfyingly shocked exclamation from above.

Molly slid her other hand down into her own drawers, rubbing her own aching cunt, the feeling spreading like hot honey. She was close to coming herself. All the pain and loss she had felt earlier that night was being swept away in a tumult of tastes and sounds and textures and smells. This was exhilarating. She was on top of the world.

Suddenly, Irene cried out, the walls of her cunt clenching around Molly’s thumb, as she orgasmed. The fingertip which had been teasing the opening of her backside popped in, surprisingly. Molly continued to thrust her hand into both until it seemed Irene was through.

There was a pause. Voices floated back from the sidewalk outside, distant and oblivious.

Heavy breathing was all she could hear from above her in the semi-darkness. Irene gulped in a deep breath. “Stand up Molly. Come up here.”

Molly stood uneasily, legs wobbly, the dull soreness of her injuries making themselves known. Pulling her hand out of her trousers, cunt throbbing, she wiped them on the cloth. Her pulse pounded in her head.

Irene pulled her into a clumsy embrace, resting her forehead against Molly’s, their breath mingling, she put her own hand into Molly’s pants to feel her. “Let me do this for you.”

Irene drew her into a passionate kiss. Her fingers rubbed feverishly as Molly came, shaking and trembling in Irene’s arms. Molly felt tears running down her cheeks. They held each other, one naked and one almost fully clothed, in the shadows of the Apothecary, the only sounds the soft kisses Irene laid on Molly's cheeks.

“You’re so beautiful. So beautiful.” Irene’s whispered.

Molly almost believed it was true.


	11. John

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It was a dangerous game John was playing, letting Sherlock Holmes fall asleep in his bed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Johnlock Sleeping drawing by Spudqueen

It occurred to him, as he stood silently in the doorway of his own bedroom, that he might never have met Sherlock Holmes. Hang about one more hour that fateful morning, perhaps redressing the wound on Mr. Wilson’s amputated leg or stopping to indulge in those buckwheat pancakes he had craved, and John would have missed his dramatic entrance. Would never have stood up to him. Would never have shared that first addictive laugh. Would never have dropped everything to follow him down this crazed path. Sherlock would have stormed out, in pursuit of Moriarty, and never realized John existed.

John could have engaged himself to Mary, probably should have long ago. She was a lovely girl, full of social graces and charming manners, and he had treated her abominably. She would have made the perfect Doctor’s wife. Life would have been so calm. Settled, even. That would have been nice, right? And then Sherlock would not have been able to draw him into...well...whatever this was that they had.

It was a dangerous habit, sleeping in the same bed as Sherlock Holmes. He was unsure of how it had started. Well...that was a bit of self deception, wasn’t it? Everything had changed in his well ordered life not more than one week ago. That’s all it took to bring him to this moment. Yes, John remembered every time he had fallen asleep in Sherlock’s arms. Something so innocent, born of exhaustion and the need for comfort, had snowballed. Now, it was anything but innocent.

The shocking part was...John Watson was glad.

\------------------------------------

The first time it happened John had been cleaning out his old Army Colt revolver, so intent on working the tow patch all the way down the bore to get every last bit of carbon scoring out that he hadn’t realized Sherlock’s incessant speculating had stopped. He turned from his desk to find the little stoppered bottle of sweet oil he kept wrapped in his chest. There, on his lumpy old feather bed, John caught sight of a different Sherlock. A Sherlock free of the fearless facade he always wore, still and at peace for the first time since John had met him and been swept away in the flood of movement that defined the young Englishman.

He looked so innocent in sleep, John thought. So fragile.

He rose and walked slowly over to his somnolent friend. His gaze trailed over the mass of dark curls, haphazardly strewn across the rough, undyed cotton of the pillowcase. John’s fingers twitched. He imagined what it would feel like to run his fingers through that soft mane. One long piece of hair had fallen down over Sherlock’s shuttered eyes, the sable strand a stark contrast to the pale skin beneath it.

John indulged himself, brushing the locks back, away from that handsome face. The back of his fingers lingered against the warmth of Sherlock’s forehead. The skin he stroked was amazingly soft and smooth.

Young. This man was still so young. It was easy to forget that Sherlock was only twenty four, a full eight years younger than John. The force of his personality, the unerring quality of his deductive skills, made it easy to assume he was a man with some experience. Being a Holmes, Sherlock seemed always to expect people would accept his every instruction...and they usually did. Intelligence went a long way in this dangerous world, and the good Lord knew that Sherlock had that in spades, but it needed to be tempered with a steady dose of common sense. Perhaps this had been missing...and then John came along. They worked well together. Then again, perhaps he was overestimating his importance.

John ran his thumb along the length of Sherlock’s eyebrow, pausing as he discovered a pale scar, from some childhood accident, no doubt, running through the silky hairs. He marveled at the length of the delicate lashes accenting the soft, almost translucent, eyelids. Sherlock’s features, the high, angular cheekbones and full petulant lips were almost feminine. He was, John mused, quite attractive. For a man. If one liked men.

Sherlock had not woken. He was deep in a dream, his long limbs splayed across his middle, softly snoring. The unrelenting action of the last few days had been draining. Sleep had finally caught up with him and he had passed out, uncaring of where he was or who observed him.  
John drew the blue wool blanket he kept folded at the foot of the bed over Sherlock, smoothing the fuzzy fabric where it lay over the other man’s chest.

John could sympathize. He felt enervated and the need for rest tugged at his body and fogged his thoughts. Folding a soft piece of muslin around his gun, and placing the cleaning supplies back in their box, John briefly considered slipping out to the exam room to sleep on the padded table there or the winged back chair by the fire. But he knew he would not.

He had slept in tents with other men before, times uncounted during his service in the Union Army. He had even crawled under the same blanket on cold nights, when the frosted ground sucked the heat from a man’s core. This would be no different, he decided. Just a friend sharing the warmth, no need to feel concern.

Just for a few hours.

Kicking off his boots, John left his trousers on and lay down on the bed beside Sherlock, on top of the covering, arranging his shorter frame carefully along the left side of the bed. He closed his eyes, listening to the whisper of Sherlock’s breath beside him; the rise and fall of his chest like a presence on it’s own in the darkness. Slowly his thoughts drifted and he sank into a relaxed slumber.

He woke, for a moment, some time later, the fire having burned down to a low bed of coals. A chill had set into the room. On nights such as this it seemed to John like the savage wildness of Montana, with it’s icy streams, rocky canyons and menacing predators, was pressing in on their little city, mocking it’s attempt to claim civilization. Outside the house, wind brushed the clapboards, a low moaning howl magnifying the cold. Winter was settling in for a long visit.

Shivering, John pulled the blanket out and scooted under, his body relaxing as it soaked in the heat from his bedmate. All was still and he could almost feel safe. He slid his arms around Sherlock’s sleeping form, resting his cheek against the other man’s chest. Somehow, in the anonymity of the night, it felt right, seemed to fit perfectly, like a piece of a puzzle. John sighed, closed his eyes and slipped back down into his dreams, body lax and mind blank.

\-------------------------------------

Late the next night, after hours spent in surgery working to save Lestrade, and the shock of discovering Edwin’s hidden nature, John had finally given in to the need for sleep, the sudden absence of stress and excitement leaving him feeling hollow and drained. He had collapsed on a narrow spool bed, it’s headboard painted in a garish pastel, crammed into the corner of a small anti-chamber, conveniently located down the hall from his patient.

The noise from the night’s bordello patron’s had finally wound down, the last customer ushered out into the frosty, empty hours of the night. Despite the earlier gun battle behind the building, or perhaps because of it, business had been brisk for the women working tonight, their faux cheer and exaggerated charms temporarily driving away the harshness of life in a mining town.

At times John could understand the need. He tried to live as he thought a gentleman should, suppressing his natural urges under a guise of manners and long work hours, but all too often gave in to self pleasure when he had the privacy. He had never so much as kissed Mary, though he could tell she was eager for the intimacy. Courting her had brought the fun of flirting and even a bit of romance to his solitary life, but after the daily tension and drama of the war, John felt let down, a sense of emptiness pervading his time.

Sherlock had changed all that in the space of a few days, filling his life again. With each day that passed he left that fog of dullness behind, his mind cleared...sung to him that this is the way life was supposed to feel.

Tonight, in the dark, his little cot seemed unwelcoming without Sherlock’s lanky body to warm it. The man was all elbows and knees, claiming most of the room in John’s down feather mattress at home and forcing John to cling to him quite closely to stay abed. Not that he minded the closeness. Just their one night together had taught him to miss his friend’s company now.

Where Sherlock had disappeared to that night was a mystery. While John had slaved feverishly over Greg’s prostrate and unconscious form, trying hard to staunch the bleeding, Sherlock had been dealing with Irene Adler and the hunt for their assailants. Mr. Grant, while alive, was heavily drugged and unresponsive. He would yield no new clues for the time being.

Edwin had been released, when, after consulting with John regarding his character and questioning him at length, it was determined that he had only become involved that very night, and then solely to save Mrs. Adler and Mr. Grant. The apothecary had no real information about Moriarty or his plans.

John had not revealed the secret Edwin was hiding. He couldn’t imagine what would drive a woman to live as a man, with all it’s dangers and responsibilities, but then experience had taught him not to judge others too closely. Thinking on it now, a seed of respect for Edwin began to grow. Perhaps he, or she, felt the same desire for the thrill of the unknown challenge that John craved.

Irene Adler had been locked in a secure room, a prisoner in her own establishment, stubbornly refusing to admit she was in league with the mad Irishman. John had seen her face as she was led away by Mycroft’s men, a mask of determination and stoic pride. She would have to be dealt with but Sherlock had rallied more armed men and gone in search of Moriarty and his road agents instead. John had been too busy then to be worried for him, but now his mind spun ever escalating scenarios. In the dark of this unfamiliar bedroom he could only pray.

Eventually, John’s body had won the battle and fatigue pulled him down into a land of blurred, confusing dreams. He tossed and turned, true rest becoming elusive as his mind relived the violence of the past few days.

_He ran through a narrow canyon, dust obscuring his sight as he hurtled, pell mell, around huge boulders and slid precariously down scree slopes. Sherlock was somewhere ahead. John caught glimpses of his black duster billowing out. He called to him, choking on the fine cloud of silt that clung to the very air, but there was no answer. Somehow John knew they were in danger. His pulse raced, sweat breaking out in pinpricks over his body. Where was Sherlock? Suddenly, a rifle shot whizzed past his head, the smell of burnt powder ballooning around him._

_The scene shifted and John was falling...he scrambled, legs churning, desperate for purchase...an avalanche of tiny stinging pebbles overtaking him...pinning him down...he couldn’t move...he called out to warn Sherlock..._

Startled out of his nightmare by a sudden, dramatic dip in the thin mattress of his bed, John thrashed about, trying to sit upright. Arms closed around him in the dark, holding him close.

“John! John, stop..you’re dreaming.” John calmed as Sherlock enveloped him tightly, wrapping his rangy arms and legs around the shorter man.  
He reeked of whiskey and tobacco smoke and seemed almost amused by John’s nightmare. “Calm yourself...you’ll wake the whole town.”

“Where have you been? You left hours ago?” Sherlock didn’t seem inclined to answer John’s frantic questions. “Sherlock, answer me!”

“Sleep now, John. There will be plenty of time for questions later.”

The taller man shifted behind him, pressing himself against the length of John’s back. A cold nose snuffled along the sweaty nape of John’s neck, it’s owner making soft noises of satisfaction. Sherlock’s arms were bare, apparently he had taken the time to strip his shirt sleeves off, and his skin was chilled from his adventures outside. He was strong. John could feel the strength of the muscle underneath.

“Sherlock?” John whispered.

“Hmm...” The nose nuzzled again. John felt cool lips brush the top of his head. The embrace tightened as Sherlock inhaled sleepily. “You smell wonderful....”

Intoxicated. He had to be. Sherlock wasn’t usually this affectionate. Still...it was nice. Stroking the soft hairs along his bedmate’s forearms, he tried to decide if he should be angry at Sherlock’s indifference or surrender to the pleasure of being held.

He fell asleep again, still debating within himself.  
\---------------------------------

John remembered the next morning all too well.

It was only twelve hours ago. A weak sun was filtering into the small room through a high window. John dozed.

The world was wonderful and snug. He stretched his body languidly, eyes still closed. One arm was under a pillow and his other draped across a warm body. His legs were curled in, tucked along the body, and John smiled lazily, the haze of some pleasurable dream still with him.

His arousal had come on slowly, as he rolled his hips forward and up, pushing insistently into the firm flesh they were pressed up against. He could feel his cock swelling, the tip sticking to his underclothes where a bead of moisture had gathered. Heat pulsed through his groin, and it felt.... marvelous.

A deep, melodious voice had mumbled something nearby, it’s tone sleepy and sensual. He felt the other person move in his arms, rubbing in a delicious friction, obviously as stimulated as John was. He ran his hand over a firm stomach and it quivered under his touch as his hand stroked downward.

His eyes fluttered open. Sherlock. Oh, Christ....

John rolled stiffly out of bed, and turned to find his trousers.

“John?” Sherlock was still half asleep. “Come back to bed. It’s early yet.”

“I have business to attend to Sherlock.” He tried not to let the sudden anger he felt surging in him bleed into his words. This was not Sherlock’s fault. John slipped his shirt on, reaching back behind his head to button the stiff linen collar down. He glanced over his shoulder.

Sherlock had gone from sleepy to shockingly awake, propping his body against the intersection of the whitewashed wall and powder blue bed frame. His pale eyes flickered over John’s body, a small frown forming tenuously. John didn’t dare turn around until he shrugged on his overcoat. Sherlock obviously knew why.

“You realize it’s a natural reaction.” The words sounded like a challenge.

John ignored this barb in favor of finishing his preparations. He collected his medical kit and turned, “I don’t have time to debate this Sherlock. I need to go check on my patients and...”

“Lestrade will be fine.”

“Not just Lestrade. Mr. Wilson is still at my house and Edwin will be needing more attention.” John paused, not sure he wanted to leave despite everything.

“John...You should know I....haven’t ever wanted to....”

“It’s okay.” Now he was sure. He needed to leave before anything else was said. “I have a social engagement later. Keep me informed if anything happens.”

John turned for the door.

“A social engagement? With whom? “ Sherlock tried to stand up, struggling to untangle himself from the blue blanket.

“It’s not important.” He wasn’t ready to tell Sherlock about Mary. He wasn’t sure he was ready for any of this.

“Who is it?” Sherlock stood in front of him now, hair tousled and gorgeous, sharp gaze boring into John’s eyes. He looked away suddenly. “I see.”

“What do you think you see?” John felt annoyance at Sherlock, at himself, hell, at the whole situation.

Sherlock turned away. His voice was dull, with a petulant hurt undertone. “You are courting someone, aren’t you? A woman. Well done, John. Enjoy your day.”

John hesitated at the door. He was courting someone. He didn’t see why he should be ashamed of that. Whatever this was...between himself and Sherlock...it wasn’t something a man was meant to do with another man. He steeled himself and stalked out the door, leaving his friend behind.

 

\---------------------------------

 

Later that day, John had gone to call on Mary. Her father, a large man with a rather surly disposition, met him at the door to turn him away. She refused to see him. He supposed he deserved the rebuff, supposed he should be upset and be planning how he would make this up to her. He knew that was what she wanted. He had ignored her, and now she would have him beg his way back into her good graces.

Walking down the gravel road from her father’s house he couldn't summon the guilt, couldn't find the will within him to try and win her back. He suddenly knew....knew he wasn’t meant for that. He would not come back to Mary. He had known more happiness, more satisfaction, in four days with Sherlock than he could ever hope for with Mary.

He started to run.

Others wouldn’t approve of the close friendship he and Sherlock had. He knew he didn’t care for their opinions. It was between the two of them.

And it was just that...a friendship. Surely two men could feel that kind of affection. He knew there were men who turned to more base instincts, allowing their need for sexual gratification to destroy them, but that wasn’t what this was. This wasn’t perversion. He cared for Sherlock.

John began a frantic search for Sherlock. He was not to be found. Even Mycroft, sitting quietly by Lestrade's bedside, had not seen him since that morning.

“He sometimes needs time alone. He will be back shortly. Under the current situation he would not have gone far, I assure you.”

Mycroft had looked at John with a peculiar expression, cataloguing the flush in John’s face and drawing conclusions at a rapid pace, much like his brother would have. It occurred to John that Mycroft might have similar feelings for Lestrade. He almost asked him. Instead, he turned and left.

Now, after looking for two solid hours, John came home as night fell to find Sherlock had broken into his home. He was here. Had apparently fallen asleep waiting.

John stood in his doorway, staring at the sleeping form of the man who had become so integral to his life. All that afternoon he had looked for Sherlock, just needing an opportunity to explain. He wasn’t sure what his feelings meant, wasn’t sure he wanted to touch him again, at least in that way, but he wanted Sherlock to understand. Now he might have the chance to tell him.

Uncertainty fell away as he began to undress. He unbuttoned his shirt, thinking of Sherlock’s long, nimble fingers. He pulled off his suspenders and stepped out of his trousers, shuffling to the side of the bed in his soft, cotton union suit. He paused at the edge of the bed.

“Sherlock” He reached over carefully to shake his friend awake.

Sherlock rolled over, his face just visible in the dim moonlight filtering through the window. John could sense those pale blue eyes on him, though he could not really see them. His voice was wary, “Are you angry with me?”

“Of course not.”

Sherlock sat up. “It’s alright to be angry. I do understand about...about your courtship. I know I shouldn’t have broken in but I had to be sure our friendship was intact. If you want me to leave just say so. I have no right to...”

“You have every right.” John interrupted, reaching down to take Sherlock’s hand. “I have ended my relationship with Mary, and you are right where I want to you to be."

“Oh...”

John felt a flush of pleasure spreading up his neck at the realization in Sherlock's response. He squeezed his friend's hand, brushing his thumb across the top. "Now slide over. It’s freezing in this room.”

A slow smile spread across Sherlock’s face. He lifted up the blankets, making room for John in the warm cocoon they would share. Sherlock pulled him down onto the bed, folding his long limbs around John.

John knew then how much he wanted to touch Sherlock, and be touched in return. What happened between them did not have to leave this room. But what happened would be wonderful. Of that he was certain.


	12. Lestrade & Mycroft

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Knowing how you feel and admitting it are two very different things.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks to all my faithful readers for hanging on...sorry for the delay in updating. I was sidetracked by The Imitation Game release, and the fic I was inspired to write about it, and, of course finals and just life in general.
> 
> In compensation I have written a nice long chapter full of feels and a generous helping of slashy action. Enjoy!

Greg realized that Mycroft must have been in his room recently as soon as he opened his eyes. He couldn’t see a great deal in the room but the lingering scent of the man, cedarwood soap and sweet tobacco with something more personal underneath, hung in the air. Sliding his hand over to his right he could feel the sheets were still warm from Mycroft’s body heat. Greg smiled at the thought of Mycroft, likely still dressed in shirtsleeves and trousers, curled alongside him in the night.

The room was still and quiet as a church. The early hints of dawn were just starting to show out the bedroom window, the starlight swallowed by the ever lightening backdrop: midnight fading to charcoal, charcoal fading to slate, slate fading to smoke. Soon the house would wake and Mrs. Hudson, hired to care for Greg, would bustle in, the mornings coffee and toast on a tray. The laudanum, which dulled the pain enough to make sleep possible, meant Greg did not really have any appetite. He knew, however, if he did not at least take a few bites Mycroft would be disappointed.

As had become his routine over the last two weeks Mycroft would stop in, freshly bathed and cheeks still stinging from the bracing aftershave he used, and join Greg for breakfast. They would chat, or more accurately Greg would doze, waking up to listen to Mycroft talking away, and then slip back into sleep again. Mycroft never seemed to mind. He liked to share the start of the day.

This morning he seemed a bit subdued. He was still impeccably dressed in a fashionable black, double breasted frock coat framing a crimson vest with his gold pocket watch and white gloves, but Greg had come to know Mycroft and could tell how distracted he was.

“Did something happen?” Greg asked, pushing himself into a sitting position awkwardly. His gunshot wound was aching this morning, but he would be damned if he would let it show to Mycroft. While the concern and attention were appreciated, Greg was growing bored with being stuck in bed all day and hoped to repeat the short walk to the sunroom he had taken yesterday.

Mycroft turned from the tea tray, stirring sugar into his cup. “Nothing too monumental, I assure you. I heard from my contacts in New York. They have been looking into Mr. Moriarty, at my request, and have found something rather disturbing. Apparently, the Fenian Brotherhood has put out a contract on my family. You are not aware, but my father occupies a position of some prominence in the government.”

Greg was aware though. Not for the first time, he felt uneasy. The closer he and Mycroft became, the more guilt assaulted him. Greg’s instructions from Pinkerton were clear; he was to report back on the situation inside Holmes Mining but also inform the client, Mycroft’s father, of his son’s personal affairs. Greg had never felt so conflicted about his job. He had, in the past, worked on cases involving infidelity and blackmail. But this...was very different. Never, in the three years he had worked for Pinkerton had he questioned what he was doing. Now...

Watching Mycroft, Greg’s heart beat faster. He realized he would do anything for this man. Would kill to protect him. It was a thought that was both exhilarating and unsettling at the same time. How much of his life was he willing to change to be with Mycroft? He thought he knew already. Greg decided then and there. At the first opportunity he would send a telegram to Pinkerton telling him he could not do this anymore.

Mycroft was still talking, face animated, while Greg had been coming to this realization. He paused, seeing Greg’s expression...

Mycroft put his teacup down and gave Greg an appraising look. “I know this situation is more than you signed up for. The danger is obviously very real, and is almost certain to get worse. Are you...if you feel as if you should resign, and move on, I would, of course, understand.”

The irony of that statement was too much. _If he only knew..._

The man was holding very still, expression shuttered and carefully blank, and Greg felt their relationship was being tested. Mycroft wanted him to stay, of that he was sure, but was willing to let him go....

Greg knew what his answer would be.

“Come here, Mycroft.” Greg gestured for the other man to sit on the bed.  
Mycroft didn’t move. His fingers, rubbing together in an unconscious nervous gesture, were the only thing that gave away the struggle he was having with his emotions. Mycroft was suddenly questioning what Greg really thought of him. That...Greg just couldn’t have that.

“I’m not going anywhere.” Greg tried to reassure him.

Emotions flitted across Mycroft’s face, but he still didn’t stir.

Greg sighed. He needed to tell him. “I’m... in love with you. You must have figured that out.”

He watched his lovers face for any reaction. Surprise seemed to be winning over all, though fear and wonder were written there too. Mycroft appeared to be struggling with how to respond.

“Greg, I....Do you...”

The door behind him opened unexpectedly and Mrs. Hudson bustled in, oblivious to the tension in the room. She began to collect the breakfast tray. “Doctor Watson has just arrived. I told him you were having your breakfast but he is quite insistent. Wants to get your exam done, I expect. He’s washing his hands.”

She stopped chattering, the tray raised in midair, and looked from Greg to Mycroft and back again. She pursed her lips.

“Hmm...is everything alright, dears?”

Mycroft had gained control of himself and turned abruptly to leave. “Yes, of course. Thank you, Mrs. Hudson. Everything is fine.”

As he walked out he nodded to John just entering the room, black bag in hand. Greg wondered what, in the hell, had just happened.

 

\-----------------------------------

 

A biting cold wind had begun whipping down the main street of town as Mycroft walked home that evening. The dirt on the streets was covered in ice crystals, which crunched under his shiny leather spat boots, and the covered boardwalks were even more treacherous, glazed in ice at the most inconvenient spots. It was the perfect night to stop in at his private gentleman’s club for a sherry, where the fire was warm and the company congenial, but Mycroft was hoping for something more than that. Normally, he would ride home in his coupe on a night like this but he needed to clear his head. To think of the right words to say....something he had never said before.

He had never considered himself a coward, and yet he had come close to running out the door of his own house this morning. So many times he had berated himself as a fool. Men like Mycroft did not fall in love. If he were lucky, he would have a few moments of lust, no more than mutual and clandestine agreements between two men. But there could be nothing more. No one could ever know.

True affection was something he had written off, his focus on building his empire in this new wilderness. Until that night when he had looked into the shadows of the alleyway and seen Greg Lestrade for the first time. And then Greg had touched his cheek, kissed him, held him and stroked him in the most intimate of ways. More than that, Greg had been there to support him, risking his life. The world had inexplicably changed..turned into a world where love might be possible.

_I’m in love with you. You must have figured that out._

Mycroft had fled from that feeling. He had spent his day, trying to focus on the danger that Moriarty represented, on the new construction at the mining shafts, on anything but the man who waited at home. Now he had decided he must, as Sherlock would say, play his cards.

As he came in the front door he heard men’s voices up the stairs. Shedding his hat, coat and gloves, Mycroft handed Quentin his umbrella and stared up to the second floor. Greg’s rumbling laugh sounded, muffled behind the door to his room.

“Doctor Watson and your brother are with Mr. Lestrade.” Quentin explained, searching his employers face with curiosity.

“Are they...” Mycroft stated absently, “I will see to them. Please insure I am not disturbed for the rest of the evening.”

He climbed the staircase at a fast clip, not waiting for Quentin’s response.

Pausing at the door to Greg’s room to straighten his frock coat, he heard Sherlock’s voice lifted, his tone mocking. “Mycroft was never what one would call a social butterfly. I remember one time when mother invited the Winston twins, who had just come out in society, and Mycroft spent the night discussing French politics with their brother.”

“That will be all we need to hear on that subject, Sherlock, I am sure.” Mycroft announced as he entered the room. All heads turned toward him.

Greg looked amused. “Your brother was just entertaining us with tales from your childhood in England.”

“I can only imagine.” Mycroft locked eyes with Greg. “I must speak with Mr. Lestrade please, gentlemen. If you will excuse us.”

It was not a question. Sherlock rolled his eyes at John and the two left, whispering conspiratorially like schoolboys. The door shut loudly, leaving Mycroft and Greg alone.

A roaring fire had been laid and the heat from it made the room quite warm. The crackling logs and the quiet tick of the clock were the only sounds. Greg was propped up against a mountain of feather pillows. The brightly patterned quilt which covered his bed at night was strewn haphazardly over his legs. He was in his shirtsleeves but something told Mycroft he had been up and walking today.

Greg smiled nervously. His cheeks were flushed and his eyes settled on Mycroft, standing like a statue not four feet from him. After this mornings events, Mycroft could imagine Greg was unsure of their status.

“I am not an easy man to care for.” Mycroft spoke quickly before his nerve left him.

“I am aware of that....” Greg began cautiously.

“It could be dangerous.” Mycroft warned.

Greg huffed, his hand going to his side. “I think I know that for a fact.”

“I don’t only refer to physical danger, I..”

“If you feel even half of what I feel, I am more than willing to take that chance.” Greg interrupted, grunting as he swung his legs from under the quilt to hang over the side of the bed. “Now, come over here.”

At the sound of command in Greg’s voice Mycroft felt the bloom of arousal spreading from his groin up his chest. His heartbeat accelerated, palms growing damp. Greg held out his hand and Mycroft moved to take it in his own.

Greg pulled Mycroft into an embrace, wrapping his arms around him and pressing the side of his face against Mycroft’s chest. He squeezed firmly and Mycroft put one hand on his shoulder, returning the sentiment. With his other hand he stroked Greg’s hair softly, running his fingers through, root to tip. It had grown longer since he had been recovering, curling around his ears and hanging down past his collar. While it was still blonde, for the most part, Greg’s hair was sprinkled with grey. It was very becoming, Mycroft thought.

“I have arranged for us to be undisturbed this evening.” Mycroft said after a moment. “Though..I don’t want to presume that you....that is I wasn’t certain, with your injuries...”

Greg chuckled. “I think we can come up with a creative solution. But first, I think we will need to take off all these layers of clothes. I could help, but I think I would really enjoy just watching.”

He looked up at Mycroft expectantly. _Did he mean I should...? Oh..._

Swallowing his anxiety, Mycroft stepped back, standing in the middle of the large wool rug that covered the floor. He couldn’t quite find the courage to look at Greg while he disrobed so he focused on his task, hands shaking despite how warm the room was.

Frock coat...shoes...cravat....waistcoat. He folded them each carefully, and placed them on a large, wing backed chair near the fireplace. It was like a ritual, peeling back the layers of protection that society provided. He could feel the imprint of Greg’s gaze following his every move. To say that he was nervous would be understating things, rather drastically, but for reasons he could not explain, exposing himself so deliberately was also very arousing. The heat from the hearth’s blaze warmed his backside; Greg’s eyes on him were like a caress.  
Hooking his thumbs in the top of his drawers, Mycroft pulled them down and stepped out. His cock was already heavy and full. Greg let out a soft breath, like a sigh, and Mycroft finally met his eyes. What he saw there made him flush.....such desire. For him.

“Touch yourself, Mycroft.” Greg’s voice was low and gravelly. He was already palming his own firming erection, still trapped inside his trousers.

Mycroft swallowed, but obeyed, taking himself in hand and stroking slowly, feeling the blood rush into his penis. Greg watched avidly. Mycroft licked his lips. This was the most sensual thing he had ever done. The feeling of being so exposed, so vulnerable, while his lover was still clothed, of being examined in detail, and the hungry look it engendered in Greg’s eyes, brought out emotions he had not known he possessed.

Greg gestured for him to come closer. Mycroft approached him, and stood between the other man’s spread legs, still stroking his prick. Greg looked up at him, his hands reaching to slide lightly up the outside of Mycroft’s bare thighs, tickling the soft hairs there.

“Are you alright?” Greg asked. Mycroft nodded, unsure if he could trust his voice. “You..are a beautiful man, Mycroft.”

Mycroft was unsure how to respond to that. Thinking that Greg found him attractive and knowing it, by the flush on Greg’s neck and chest and the obvious evidence swelling in his drawers, was intoxicating. Now Greg was smiling up at him, and looking at his lovely face Mycroft knew he trusted him, would do anything for him...loved this man with a depth he would never have thought himself capable of.

Greg took hold of Mycroft’s hands, placing them on his head. Leaning forward he softly mouthed Mycroft’s balls, rolling them with his tongue. Greg’s hands slid around his arse, cupping each cheek firmly and drawing him closer, burying his face in the nest of ginger pubic hair. He inhaled deeply, seeming to revel in the smell of Mycroft.

“I’m going to suck your cock now.” Greg said in a husky voice, his breath skittering across the hyper sensitive skin of Mycroft’s hips. “You will tell me when you are close. I want to see you....right?”

“Yes...” Greg had begun to lick a wet stripe from the base of Mycroft’s cock to the tip, sucking lightly on the sensitive head, flicking his tongue just so. It made speech difficult. “....I will...oh God....I will tell you.”

Mycroft gasped, consumed by a flood of heat, pressure and wetness as Greg took his straining member into his mouth in one swift move. He began to suck in earnest, hollowing his cheeks as he drew back, popping almost all the way off, and then pushing the tight circle of his lips down past the head, plunging down again. The sensations were exquisite. Greg’s hands were squeezing his buttocks, encouraging Mycroft to push further and further in each time.

Mycroft’s hands tightened in Greg’s hair, gripping a handful. He would not last long at this rate. Looking down he saw his cock push into Greg’s mouth. _Oh, God..the way that looked._ The man was huffing and humming. One of Greg’s hands went down to his own drawers, pulling out his hard cock and working himself as he sucked Mycroft down. The sight of Greg pleasuring himself, obviously excited by what he was doing, was electrifying...a current of pleasure rolled out as Mycroft’s hips stuttered erratically.

“Greg! I...I am going to orgasm...soon!” Mycroft said.

Greg stopped, pulling himself up to standing using Mycroft’s shoulders. He rubbed his hot, hard length against Mycroft’s spit slicked prick and, taking them both in hand together began to thrust them both together through the circle of his hand. Breathing hard, Mycroft looked down, fascinated by the sight of both their cocks, lined up together, pushing and thrusting. The rhythm became desperate and needy. A high keening sound escaped from the back of Mycroft’s throat.

He felt his cock twitch and his orgasm overtook him in a surge, his eyes closing tightly as thick streams of come spurted out and over Greg’s fast moving hands. Mycroft let out a low, guttural groan. Tiny flickering aftershocks jumped through him as Greg snapped his hips up, his own cock pulsing onto Mycroft’s own twitching member moments later.

Both men stood, clinging to each other to remain upright, breathing heavily. Mycroft set his hand on the back of Greg’s neck, stroking the sweaty nape in a soothing gesture. Greg seemed wrung out; he leaned heavily on Mycroft.

Covering his lover’s face and neck with soft, moist kisses Mycroft was overwhelmed by the urge to express what he was feeling. He whispered into Greg’s ear, “I love you....more than you could ever realize.”

The admission seemed to galvanize Greg. A huge smile spread over his handsome face. Wrapping his arms around Mycroft, he kissed him passionately.

Many long minutes later they moved apart and Mycroft retrieved a towel by the washbasin to clean them both up. Greg cautiously stripped down until he too was standing unclothed. He turned down the small oil lamp and the golden glow of firelight bathed the two men. As they curled up in the large brass bed together, Greg drew his arms around Mycroft’s bare chest and, careful of his bandages, fit his body along Mycroft’s backside. The novelty of being pressed, naked, against Greg soon melted as Mycroft allowed a wave of drowsiness to wash over him. He closed his eyes, contented, and gave himself over to the care of the man he loved.


	13. Jim

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Survival was 'bout all you could hope for in the tenements of Dublin, but Jimmy Moriarty had that problem licked. He was aiming for better things.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> See research notes and pictures of Dublin at end.

_Pelting down the grimy alleyway that led to the enclosed stone yard behind the Magdalene Asylum, Jimmy slid sideways 'round a stack of rickety crates and barely managed to keep his feet under him on the slick cobbles. He flung out his left hand, instinctively protecting his damaged right, and caught his balance precariously, fingertips skimming the ground. Not daring to look over his shoulder for pursuit, he flung himself, head long and heedless, past the Asylum sisters and their piles of laundry, dancin' and dodgin', and slipped through a craggy gap in the far wall, ripping his Sunday shirt on a rough bit of stone. Cursing loudly he stumbled out into the crowd on the street. He stopped, backing up against the wall of the cigar shop doorway, and inspected the damage._

_Trying to catch his breath, arms shaking and knees weak, he picked at the blood...his own Da’s blood....that was caked on his good hand. His mind raced, calculating the odds of getting away with it._

_“Sure Ma would be back at their rooms by nightfall,” he thought desperately, “ an’ though she’d be more ‘n happy to see the arse end of that ball o’ shite, I need to fix it so she never knew what I done.”_

_Peeking out into the street, Jim shoved his bloodied hands into his trouser pockets and set out, at a more measured pace, down the expanse of Sackville Street, intent on reaching the quay, where he knew he would find the only man in Dublin who could take care of all this. It was surely a measure of his desperation._

_He could smell the Liffey blocks before he arrived at the quay; the moist, fetid stench of sewage, mouldering vegetables, shipbuilders tar and rancid meat from the slaughterhouses upriver created an almost palpable blanket of odors. The higher classes covered their delicate noses with handkerchiefs of Kenmare lace as they crossed the bridges; Jim had no such luxury. Lucky for him, the tide had gone out._

_Ducking down a narrow, cluttered alley near the shipping docks he came to pair of double loading doors, their wood weathered silver by years of salty spray. Straightening his jacket and doffing his flat cap, Jim took a deep breath and knocked. A few minutes went by as he nervously attempted to plaster his hair down. Finally the door wrenched open with a squeal, and he was confronted by a great big chucker of a man wearing red braces and a cork hat. It was obvious he hadn’t washed in at least a fortnight, judging by the layers of sweat stains decorating his undershirt ._

_“Wha ja want, you little chiseller? Piss right off!” His meaty paw reached out to push Jim away._

_Taking a step back to avoid the touch, Jim kept his tone firm, trying to seem more mature than his fourteen years had earned him. “I’m here to see Mr. Connelly, on urgent business mind. Ya best tell him Jim Moriarty’s here. He’s been lookin’ for me.”_

_The man stepped forward menacingly to push Jim back into the alley, but a soft voice from the darkness behind called him off. “Let him by, Seamus.”_

_The big man stepped aside, scowling at Jim as he passed. His breath stunk of those cheap cigars the dock hands smoked and what Jim judged was homemade poitín potato liquor._

_Jim followed the other man down the narrow hallway and through the door at the end. The room he entered was larger than seemed obvious from the outside and was furnished like the queen herself lived there: a silky oriental carpet covering the worn wood floors, a roaring fire of hardwood logs lighting the room and books of all sizes and description lining the walls and stacked, all higgledy-piggledy, on the floor and chairs all around. An imposing desk of carved wood sat like a monument in the center. Behind it, almost enveloped in a tall, silk embroidered wing-backed chair, reclined the man Jim had come to see. None other than Eamon Connelly himself._

_Connelly gestured imperiously for the other man to leave them, never taking his dark eyes off his new visitor. He had an intensity in his expression which was hard to look away from._

_Determined not to be cowed by his surroundings, Jim squared his shoulders and approached the man. He nodded politely and considered how to phrase things to get the help he needed._

_Before he could ask Connelly spoke, his voice deep and resonant. “Am I to understand that you have finally come to take up my offer, Mr. Moriarty?”_

_Jim tucked his hands behind his back, “Mr. Connelly, I have indeed been considerin’ what your man suggested the other day, an’ I think it’s right generous of ya. Might be smart, at that, to join forces, so to speak. I’m wonderin‘ if I might speak to ya about a sort of situation I find myself in...before we...well...talk terms, an‘ all.”_

_Connelly shook his head, huffing a short laugh of disbelief under his breath. He leaned back in his chair, steepling his fingertips under his chin, and directing a thoughtful look at the young street tough in front of him._

_“Terms, is it?” His voice took on a softer, more menacing tone. “I think the ‘terms’, as you put it, will be of my choosing.”_

_Connelly stood, and slowly walked around the desk to stand in front of Jim. He was a tall, handsome man, with thick black hair and a sharp patrician nose that gave him a hawk like appearance. Deliberately, he stepped close to Jim, uncomfortably inside his personal space. He stared down. “I am willing to take you on, as my apprentice, because I see promise, even_ _intelligence, behind this wild facade.”_

_Jim shuffled uncomfortably. He peered down at his worn boots, crusted in dirt. There was a stain of rusted blood on one._

_Dismissively gesturing at the rags that Jim wore, Connelly sneered. “But let me make something clear, boy...you will be mine...heart and soul, if you catch my meaning. There will be no going back to a life of petty crime.”_

_This wasn’t going the way he had planned, but time was tickin’ away, and he needed this man’s help. Any minute now the neighbors, or worse, the coppers, could stumble on his dead Da, lying on the floor of his flat, his head caved in._

_Jim looked up at the face of his new benefactor. He supposed workin’ for Connelly wouldn’t be so bad. Jim’d find his way ‘round the strictures. He always did in the end._

_“Yes, sir. I catch your meanin’, right enough.” Jim tried to make his voice a bit meeker than was his custom. It probably wasn’t foolin’ this man, but at least he was makin’ the effort._

_Connelly barked out an abrupt laugh. “Yes, I can see that you do. You can stop trying to look so timid...it doesn’t suite you.”_

_He walked back around and sat in his chair again. “So...what can I do for you?”_

_Relief swept over Jimmy as he explained what had happened. He was proud that his voice didn’t break as he described finding his mother, bloodied and walking in a daze near their home. Taking her to his cousin’s tenement nearby, he had gone home to find his Da, blind drunk and passed out. It was a common enough sight, but something about this day was different. It was as if years of pressure, building each time he listened to his Ma scream and plead, had reached it’s limit, exploding out like water over a dam._

_He remembered feelin’ a cold rage take over his mind, like the world was narrowed down to just that room. His hand closed on the iron poker near the coal stove; it’s weighty heft felt right in a way he couldn’t explain. His Da had never even moved...well, after that first blow to the head, Jimmy reckoned he never would again. He swung that poker over and over....time blurring until he came to himself, on his knees in a pool of slippery blood, lungs heaving and arms shaking violently. He had dropped the poker and stumbled back, slipping and knocking over the dryin’ rack and fallin’ heavily against the wall._

_It was then that the emotion caught up with him, and he cried...great racking sobs, bursting forth and impossible to stop. Eventually he had staggered to the sink and heaved up his empty stomach. Not that he would tell Connelly that part. Jimmy looked up at the man, worried he had gone on too long, actin’ too much the little boy an’ not the man he hoped to present._

_But Connelly hadn’t seemed to notice. He was watching Jimmy with a look of disbelief and, maybe, sympathy on his face. His eyes flickered over the young man in front of him. “You seem quite clean for the charnel scene you describe.”_

_“I stripped an put on me best breeches. Seemed the smart thing to do.” Jimmy kept his blood crusted hands behind him. “Door is blocked too. To keep the coppers away. I went out the back window.”_

_“Did anyone see you leave?”_

_“Don’t reckon they did, sir. I got a talent for not being seen, if you catch my meanin’.”_

_Connelly nodded thoughtfully. “I can only imagine.”_

_Standing up, he walked to the door, leaning out and murmuring instructions to the man in the hall. Turning back he spoke to Jimmy. “Go with Mr. Levi and his men. Show him the scene and he will clean up everything. You are to collect your remaining clothes, and any personal effects you wish to take with you. You may leave a letter for your mother, letting her know you are safe and will be in touch.”_

_Jim nodded uncertainly._

_Connelly frowned. “Have you any education? Can you write?”_

_“Yes, sir. I can write me name.” Jim bristled. He couldn’t afford for this man to think him stupid. “An’ read a fair bit too.”_

_“I see. Well, that will have to remedied. You will be living here, in my house, from now on.” He came over to stand by his new apprentice, laying a heavy, warm hand on Jimmy’s shoulder. Jimmy fought the urge to pull away; he hated being touched like that. It felt like the older man wanted to own him, to claim him. He shivered inside, tamping down his revulsion. This man could make or break him...and Connelly was not his Da. He didn’t mean it like that._

_Connelly was still speaking, “You’ve had a late start but I suspect you are smart enough for that to be of little consequence.”_

_Jimmy flushed, pleased at what seemed like praise. Finally, someone recognized him._

\---------------------------------------------------

The snow that had been drifting lazily down, soft and peaceful, hours ago was now a tempest of stinging ice and wind, slinging sleet, like fistfuls of gravel, into the sides of the isolated cabin. The creak and slam of the barn door in the yard punctuated the winds aching howl. All the world outside felt dark, and dangerous, like a malevolent presence announcing its outrage.

It suited Jim’s mood perfectly.

Staring morosely into the fireplace was not helping to calm his racing mind. Calculating thoughts fought with unwelcome flares of emotion, worry and deep anger, as the minutes ticked by, mocking his attempts at control. He glanced, not for the first time, at the bottle of whiskey taunting him from the darkened kitchen table. He had placed it there to test himself. At this point though, it was a better to focus on the bottle than what might have happened to Sebastian.

If he was dead... _if Holmes’ men had killed him_ , Jim was not sure what he felt.

Anger, first and foremost. Not the old friend who had been lurking in the background of his psyche since his first encounter with Mycroft Holmes, but a sharper, gutting type of anger, at Sebastian....no, in truth, at himself....for allowing sentiment to take over. Mycroft Holmes had once told him, projecting haughty condescension like it was his heritage, that caring was not an advantage. In this one thing, perhaps he was right.

Jim had become an expert at shutting himself off. The person he showed the world was like a cold polished stone, all rounded edges and glacial indifference, that people found impossible to penetrate. Nobody really understood him. It made them uncomfortable, and that made them pliable....easy to mold under Jim’s relentless intelligence. In truth, he enjoyed their uncertainty.

But then he met Sebastian. He was not brilliant, beyond a crafty street smart experience which made him an obvious leader in this wilderness town. He was not educated, or wealthy. He was ruggedly built, with dark eyes, and the strong jawline of a Roman centurion...certainly not the delicate, high cheeked undergrads Jim toyed with at Oxford. He had an almost feral sensuality which those boys could never conceive of. Though he had never so much as touched Sebastian, Jim had to admit it intrigued him.

Sebastian did not react to Jim they way others did. The fear which kept others at arms length never seemed to occur to Sebastian. He trusted Jim. Respected him even. It was...odd.

When Jim had sent him out to take Grant back, or dispose of him if need be, it had seemed an easy task. It should have simple..in and out. It hadn’t taken long, a matter of months after he arrived in town, to set up a web of informants. Jim was the master. A mere two weeks after Holmes had taken Grant from the brothel, Jim had discovered where they had been keeping him.

“If Holmes is as smart as you say he is,” Sebastian had warned him that morning, lounging insouciantly against the hearth mantle, “he’ll know you’re comin’. It’s all been too easy, I say.”

Jim had raised his eyes from the book he had been reading, scanning Sebastian with a detachment all too obvious to be reassuring. He cocked his head, humming to himself. “Mmmm...I see you’ve been thinking again. What did we agree about that?”

Sebastian had snorted, squatting down to pull the dutch oven from the coals. “I didn’t agree to anything of the sort.”

Jim had allowed his gaze to sweep slowly down over the broad shoulders and muscular backside of the other man, his thoughts straying in a decidedly licentious direction. He felt the fingers on his good hand twitch restlessly as he allowed himself to consider exploring hot skin under the rough cotton of Sebastian’s trousers. So...masculine.  
Sebastian had turned around, flushing self consciously as he had taken note of the way Jim was studying him. “Just my opinion, mind.”

“Tsk, tsk. Mycroft Holmes has finally made a mistake. He let his guard down and underestimated his enemy, namely, me.” Jim had said, shaking his head as if such a weakness in his adversary was sad, not a cause for gleeful celebration, as indeed it was. “One must always strike when the vulnerable belly is showing, Sebastian.”

People like Holmes, so disgustingly sure of their natural right to rule, always believed they were untouchable. Jim was itching to show him how wrong he was. Sebastian had just nodded, and Jim could see him accept that the decision had been made. The dark haired man finished his coffee, shrugging on his heavy coat and preparing to do as ordered, no further questions necessary. Jim loved that about Sebastian; obedience always engendered tender feelings in him.

Unsure of how much Grant would tell his employer, Jim had been forced to move his base of operations from his comfortables rooms in town to this isolated canyon. Being removed from the action was driving Jim around the bend. As the hours ticked by, with no sign of Sebastian or his men, he was beginning to regret his rather arrogant bluster. What was happening out there?

Lost in his brooding, Jim didn’t hear the muffled thump of someone approaching until they were right outside the door. Relief swept over him at the sound of Sebastian’s deep voice, yelling above the winds. A coiled fury, which had been simmering in the back of his unsuspecting mind, quickly shouldered the relief aside though, as Jim realized that the mission had probably failed.

Gathering himself, Jim took a deep breath, and settled into his chair, struggling to project a calm he didn't quite feel, eyes fixed on the door.

Pictures:  

1\.  Young girls working in the Magdalene laundry.

2\.  Magdalene Asylum, Leeson St. Dublin.

3\.  Sackville Street, Dublin.  1898.

4\.  Dublin Tenement slums, circa 1910.  

        
  
       

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here are some interesting links about Dublin in the 1840's, in the beginning of the great potato famine:
> 
> https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Magdalene_laundries_in_Ireland
> 
> http://www.census.nationalarchives.ie/exhibition/dublin/poverty_health.html
> 
> Neat Article about Dublin and James Joyce: http://www.slate.com/articles/arts/books/2014/05/james_joyce_s_dubliners_100th_anniversary_dublin_a_century_later.html


End file.
